Spectacular Girls: Media Fascination and Celebrity Culture 9780814764794

Citation preview

Spectacular Girls

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Spectacular Girls Media Fascination and Celebrity Culture

Sarah Projansky

a new york universit y press New York and London

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS New York and London www.nyupress.org © 2014 by New York University All rights reserved References to Internet websites (URLs) were accurate at the time of writing. Neither the author nor New York University Press is responsible for URLs that may have expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared. library of congress cataloging-in-publication data Projansky, Sarah, 1965Spectacular girls : media fascination and celebrity culture / Sarah Projansky. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8147-7021-4 (cl: alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8147-2481-1 (pbk : alk. paper) 1. Women in mass media. 2. Celebrities in mass media. 3. Mass media and girls. I. Title. P96.W6P88 2014 302.230835’2—dc23 2013034205 New York University Press books are printed on acid-free paper, and their binding materials are chosen for strength and durability. We strive to use environmentally responsible suppliers and materials to the greatest extent possible in publishing our books. Manufactured in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Also available as an ebook

In memory of Leah R. Vande Berg mentor, scholar, friend For Mina and Daniel

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Contents List of Illustrations Acknowledgments Introduction: Finding Alternative Girlhoods

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1 Pint-Sized and Precocious: The Girl Star in Film History

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2 “It’s Like Floating” or Battling the World: Mass Magazine Cover Girls

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3 What Is There to Talk About? Twenty-First-Century Girl Films 95 4 “I’m Not Changing My Hair”: Venus Williams and Live TV’s Racialized Struggle over Athletic Girlhood

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5 Sakia Gunn Is a Girl: Queer African American Girlhood in Local and Alternative Media

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6 “Sometimes I Say Cuss Words in My Head”: The Complexity of Third-Grade Media Analysis

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Conclusion: Girlhood Rethought

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Notes Bibliography Index About the Author

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Illustrations Figure I.1. Gabby Douglas appears on the cover of Time in celebration of the 2012 Summer Olympics, July 30, 2012. 3 Figure I.2. Toys“R”Us gendered marketing.

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Figure 1.1. Addie and Imogene discuss racial politics in Paper Moon. 40 Figure 1.2. Addie and Imogene say good-bye in Paper Moon.

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Figure 1.3. Cross-dressing Tatum O’Neal: the youngest person ever to win a competitive Academy Award.

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Figure 2.1. Sasha and Malia with their parents on the cover of People, November 24, 2008. 67 Figure 2.2. Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato as BFFs on the cover of People, July 22, 2009. 74 Figure 2.3. Vanessa Hudgens with Zac Efron during the height of High School Musical success, September 3, 2007.

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Figure 2.4. Venus and Serena Williams battle the world on the cover of Time, September 3, 2001. 81 Figure 2.5. Kidnapping survivors Jacqueline Marris and Tamara Brooks do not smile for the camera/viewer on the cover of People, August 19, 2002.

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Figure 2.6. Jessica Dubroff, aviator, on the cover of Time, April 22, 1996. 91 Figure 3.1. Cady with her queer-positive friends, Janis and Damien. 115 Figure 3.2. One of Olive’s many engagements with pleasure and performance.

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Figure 3.3. The moment at which Juno makes the decision to choose Vanessa as the baby’s mother, in Juno.

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In addition, my sister Rachel, a public school teacher, generously read a draft of chapter 6, challenging me to think carefully about my claims and the meaning and purpose of elementary school education. My brother Daniel and sister-in-law Diana, through conversations about their approaches to working in children’s media, helped me think more carefully about the complexity of the media industry. And at the very end, my mother took time out of her vacation and her busy life to read every word of the book twice, making sure everything was just right. I am sure any typos that slipped through were inserted after she read the manuscript. I thank all of my family for their unwavering love and support. There is no way I can fully express my deep appreciation for my life partner, Kent Ono. An intellectual sounding board, careful editor, inspirational scholar, and loving partner and co-parent, he has been only patient and supportive through the entire process of writing this book, whether he was reading drafts, talking through my ideas, caring for our children while I worked, encouraging me to take a nap, or cooking dinner. He and I research and publish very differently, and yet he has only ever supported me in my own endeavors. To have a loving life partner who is also a supportive and challenging intellectual partner is a gift I am grateful for every day of my life. Finally, my children, Mina and Daniel, have been patient even when they did not want to be, have loved me even when I was not around enough, and have taken seriously my commitment to finishing this project. Through the example of how they live their lives, they have each challenged me to think carefully and more fully about the complexity of the intersection of youth and gender. This book is for them.

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Introduction Finding Alternative Girlhoods As the 21st century picks up speed and settles into place, childhood has become a spectacle—a site of accumulation and commodification—in whose name much is done. —Cindi Katz, “Childhood as Spectacle”

All girls are spectacular. I take this as a given. I consider it to be a feminist claim. Nevertheless, contemporary U.S. media tell us otherwise. Hence, I start with this assertion to remind myself and my readers that it is possible to believe this to be true. In media, some girls are fabulous, others are not; some girls’ stories are worth telling over and over again; others warrant telling only in passing or not at all. Girls who are large, differently abled, queer, of color, and/or poor; make “bad” or “dangerous” choices; feel depressed; or even just act silly (1) simply do not exist in media culture; or (2) appear in marginalized representations, on the periphery, with sidekick status; or (3) populate ubiquitous disparaging, disdainful, anxious, and/or protectionist depictions that shore up a narrow version of acceptable girlhood: the impossibly high-achieving heterosexual white girl who plays sports, loves science, is gorgeous but not hyper-sexual, is fit but not too thin, learns from her (minor) mistakes, and certainly will change the world someday. This book is, in part, about the ways in which media produce some girls as spectacular while belittling others. Its primary investment, however, is in paying sustained analytical attention to the many girls who fall outside a narrow definition of conventional girlhood. Working as a feminist media scholar committed to fighting racism and affirming >> 1

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of hyper-sexualized girls lead to decreased self-esteem and potentially poor choices to put one’s own body on display or engage in early sexual activity. Yet, in the process of “reporting” on and worrying about this, media further perpetuate the at-risk narrative, reproducing and reifying images of girls as hyper-sexualized and miserable. In short, media contribute to the creation of the at-risk narrative, produce a moral panic about the girl figure at the center of that narrative, and then—through the process of worrying—perpetuate the very depictions of girls about which they worry. Analogous to Michel Foucault’s “repressive hypothesis” about Victorian sexuality,15 the contemporary moral panic about the at-risk girl perpetuates—rather than helps to overcome—the discursive condition of her existence. As Angela McRobbie and Sarah Thonton put it, “Moral panics seem to have become a goal.”16 While this moral panic about the at-risk girl is strong in turn-ofthe-twenty-first-century media culture,17 celebration of the can-do girl is equally common. This version of girlhood is a fantasy promise that if girls work hard, not only can they avoid becoming at-risk, but they can achieve anything. Particularly in neoliberal consumer culture, this narrative promises unbelievable happiness and achievement—girl power—for the girl who embodies can-do status through career, fashion, and lifestyle choices. While the moral panic depictions of the at-risk girl are paradoxical (in that they contribute to the production of the very thing about which they worry), the girl power depictions of the can-do girl are more straightforward: they provide superhuman television heroes such as True Jackson (who is skilled enough as a teenager to help run a major fashion magazine) and Buffy (who slays vampires and eventually saves the world for the Buffy in every girl), and they market products by suggesting that girls can express and maintain their can-do status through consumer choices. In this book, I argue that collectively these media depictions illustrate the spectacularization of girls in turn-of-the-twenty-first-century media culture. By this, I mean several things. First, media incessantly look at and invite us to look at girls. Girls are objects at which we gaze, whether we want to or not. They are everywhere in our mediascapes. As such, media turn girls into spectacles—visual objects on display.18 Second, some mediated girls are also spectacular, as in fabulous. The can-do girls’ achievements, athletic abilities, intelligence, and self-confidence dazzle. Third, some girls are spectacles, or scandals. Media wait with bated

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To say that media spectacularize girls in celebrity culture is to emphasize the intense publicness of contemporary girlhood: the way in which girls are readily available to us, similar to the way every aspect of a celebrity’s life is fair game for discussion, evaluation, and consumption. In thinking about girls in relation to celebrity culture, then, I am interested not only in individual girl celebrities, but also in how analysis of the spectacularization of girls can help us better understand how both celebrity culture and public girlhoods function. I begin this discussion in chapter 1, where I argue girl stars can be understood to epitomize the sexualized scandal at the heart of the star/celebrity system, and I continue to address it in relation to celebrities on magazine covers (chapter 2), girl stars in prominent films about girls (chapter 3), girl sports celebrities (chapter 4), the tragedy of a girl made famous by her death (chapter 5), and the complex perspective some everyday girls take on Selena Gomez as an ethnically ambiguous Disney girl celebrity (chapter 6). Each chapter, then, is in part a case study through which to explore the relationship between girls and celebrity, and the book as a whole illustrates how central girls are to celebrity culture. While I argue that all girls are spectacularized within the context of celebrity culture, a central goal of this book is to insist that not all girls are spectacularized in the same way. Specifically, throughout the book I emphasize the varying racializations, genderings, and sexualities of spectacular girlhood. As many scholars have shown, the can-do girl is usually white, while the African American or Latina girl is usually atrisk. The everyday gamma girl is generally white, but the pregnant teen is almost always Latina or African American.26 Exceptions prove the rule or imply “race-blindness”: for example, Amy’s status as a special white pregnant girl and then teen mom in The Secret Life of the American Teenager (2008–2013). And narratives in which can-do celebrity girls of color do appear rarely address racial specificity or racialization; thus they offer a color-blind ideology in children’s culture that, as Sarah Turner argues, can reinscribe and reify whiteness: for example, China Anne McClain in A.N.T. Farm (2011–present).27 Additionally, regardless of whether they are can-do or at-risk, the majority of girls in media culture simply are white. The celebrities who crash and burn are white. The central characters in most films and television shows about girls are white. As I explore in chapter 2, the girls who appear most often on the

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cap, Dubroff reads as what Judith Halberstam calls a “rogue tomboy,” a tomboy who is not just (or even particularly) interested in being active (“like boys”) and remaining a child just a little bit longer by resisting adulthood, but who more forcefully turns away from femininity and in fact toward an adult masculine persona: here, that of the pilot.34 In short, working as a feminist media scholar, I acknowledge the dominance of whiteness, femininity, heteronormativity, and their relationship to the can-do/at-risk dichotomy, but like Wanzo and Stockton I am uninterested in centering these girlhoods. Rather, this book spends the most time with girls who fall outside of or alter (sometimes ever so slightly) this dichotomy and/or who do not read as white and/ or heteronormative.35 These girls include Tatum O’Neal, the least discussed but arguably queerest mega girl star from the 1970s (chapter 1); girls of color and queer girls who appear on the cover of mass magazines not as frequently as, but nevertheless alongside, the many can-do/ at-risk heteronormative white girls that populate these covers (chapter 2); the girl characters and stars from girl films of the last decade that led to sustained public debate over girls, including debate about the relationship between girls and feminism (Mean Girls/Lindsay Lohan, Little Miss Sunshine/Abigail Breslin, Juno/Ellen Page, and Precious/Gabourey Sidibe) (chapter 3); Venus Williams as a key teen tennis queen of the late 1990s who helped shift the meaning of “girl athlete” in racialized and politicized ways (chapter 4); Sakia Gunn, an African American lesbian/AG (aggressive) from Newark who was killed in a bias crime highly publicized not by the mainstream national press but by the local and alternative press (chapter 5); and, finally, ordinary and yet highly analytical third-grade girl media critics who were kind enough to work with me on a media project (chapter 6). In each chapter, I engage various feminist media studies methodologies to seek out girls who do not simply perpetuate a can-do/at-risk dialectic. Whether I call these girls alternative, nonnormative, or—as other scholars have—”the body that was not [of concern],”36 the “BBFF [black best friend forever],”37 or “unloveable subjects,”38 these girls are part of the contemporary mediascape of girlhood. To identify a dominant representation and then focus all one’s analytical attention there—as much girls’ media studies scholarship does39—is, at least in part, to reify that dominance. Instead, in this book I use my analysis and choice of topics and

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initial overview of girls in contemporary media culture. By including these diverse girls in the very first pages of this book I mean to draw attention to and take seriously the presence of alternative girls within the center, to write the field of girlhood in a way that sees their presence. In short, this book offers a critical girls’ media studies perspective and methodology in pursuit of alternative girls.

The Ubiquity of Girls, 1990–Present Arguably, there are at least two reasons for the dramatic increase in U.S. media depictions of girls since the early 1990s. First, the mediated girl was already present and therefore easily available to address contemporary issues. As many scholars have shown, girls have appeared in U.S. media culture repeatedly over the past two centuries in ways that work through cultural anxieties about any number of social issues. For example, in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, black children, both girls and boys, appeared as “stereotypical  .  .  . pickaninnies” in advertisements that worked to “portray blacks as happy and nonthreatening,” and thereby helped to maintain racism as an institution and segregation as a system of enforced inequality.50 In the early part of the twentieth century, public debates about age-of-consent laws and girls’ sexual delinquency articulated anxiety about immigration and girls’ and women’s roles in the public sphere.51 And in the 1950s the figure of the teenage bobby-soxer—a girl who wrought havoc at home yet strove toward heteronormative romance—appeared as incomprehensible, yet nevertheless fascinating, to adults. In particular, her engagement with consumer culture and the way she refigured the gendered structure of the family helped transform the postwar citizen–subject.52 Now, at the turn of the twenty-first century, the convenient figure of the girl—already adept at standing in for various social concerns— surfaces once again to work through contemporary social issues, such as, I would argue, neoliberalism and postfeminism.53 Harris argues that the contemporary girl functions as an idealized citizen for the neoliberal global economy: a flexible, adaptable, pliant, enthusiastic, intelligent, and energetic participant in commodity consumption, personal responsibility, and mobile work. Hence, we can understand the current attention to girls as one way that media culture comes to terms with

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Hannah Montana or Wizards of Waverly Place or listen to Miley Cyrus’s or Selena Gomez’s music, they still know who these girls are. Television, of course, was not the only media industry going through rapid change in the late twentieth century. The mass magazine industry shifted more and more toward market segmentation during this time, producing a number of magazines aimed at teen girls, including Sassy (1988–1996), Cosmo Girl (1999–2009), Elle Girl (2001–2006), and Teen Vogue (2003–present). And, as the Internet grew, many websites linked to the television shows and magazines I list here emerged, along with innumerable other sites that market products and/or empowerment to girls.56 In short, developments in technology, related shifts in industry structure and targeted marketing,57 and the proliferation of media platforms drew on and contributed to a growing cultural obsession with girls. Representations of girls, then, can be seen as playing a key role in cultural, social, economic, technological, and industrial shifts taking place at the turn of the twenty-first century.

Feminist Girls’ Media Studies Spectacular Girls fits within an area of thought at the intersection of feminist studies and media studies, what I call “feminist girls’ media studies”: feminist scholarship (however the author defines her/his feminism) that focuses on the relationship between girls and media. This research has been steadily increasing over the last two decades, so much so that beginning in 2007 overview essays within media studies began to appear in which authors define and tell the history of “girls’ studies.” Since 2007, at least ten of these overview essays have been published.58 While each overview makes a unique contribution, here I briefly summarize the collective historical narrative they tell. Most of these essays mention two 1970s/early-1980s foremothers of the field of girls’ studies: Carol Gilligan and Angela McRobbie. Gilligan, working in the context of psychology and philosophy, gives us two central ideas: (1) girls have a “different voice,” based in relationality rather than individuality, and (2) that voice faces the threat of loss as girls enter adulthood and are socialized as women.59 This is an argument contemporary moral panic books often “misconstru[e]”60 in order to build a case for the surveillance and protection of girls.61 McRobbie, working

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After telling this girls’ studies history, most of the overview essays make calls for future research: more listening to girls’ voices, a greater attention to race and sexual diversity, an increased focus on political/ economic/educational issues, less focus on “girls as victims,” and more attention to “everyday girls.” In other words, as I do here in this introduction, they call for a shift away from a focus on media culture’s simultaneous adoration of and disdain for girls. Yet there is already a large body of work that goes beyond the can-do/at-risk dichotomy. In particular, there are two types of scholarship I include in my definition of feminist girls’ media studies and draw on in this book, but which these overviews tend not to mention: ethnographies and public and social policy scholarship. Perhaps not coincidentally, this work also tends to center race and/or queer issues. Ethnographies and work on everyday girls that address, at least in part, the role media play in girls’ everyday lives (as opposed to girls’ media production—an area well covered by the overviews), include Not Our Kind of Girl: Unraveling the Myths of Black Teenage Motherhood, in which Elaine Bell Kaplan addresses teen mothers’ difficulties with the educational system and fraught relationships with men, made more difficult by media representations of teenage mothers as irresponsible and isolated from men and sexuality altogether. And Meenakshi Gigi Durham complicates our understanding of “girls’ media” by asking how Indian American girls use mainstream, Indian, and diaspora media in different ways, and by paying attention to how the girls she interviews define the differences among their own, their parents’, and their nonIndian friends’ understandings of ideas about girls, gender, and sexuality in media.73 This kind of ethnographic scholarship takes seriously the complex and varied roles media play in girls’ everyday lives. Girls’ studies work on public and social policy can contribute to (re)definitions of girls and media as well. For example, in Beyond Bad Girls: Gender, Violence, and Hype, feminist criminologists Meda Chesney-Lind and Katherine Irwin look carefully at the interrelationship between (1) media images of violent girls (which tend to be “gang” girls of color in the late 1980s/early-1990s) and mean girls (which tend to be white middle-class girls in the late 1990s/early-2000s), and (2) the racial demographics in a recent increase in the criminalization and incarceration of girls. Through this comparison of media representations and criminal

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Reading, Resisting, and Creating Media, Susan Driver addresses the complexity and nuance of both media representations of queer girls and the ways in which queer girls interact with media. By taking queer girls as its subject, the book challenges media studies to think seriously about queer representations—not as ephemeral, marginal, or displaced (which Driver identifies as one typical critique of the representation of LGBTQ issues in popular media), but as an entire world with which queer girls engage on a regular, ongoing, and complex basis. In short, like Valdivia and Driver, in this book I argue that various alternative girls—often girls of color and/ or queer girls—are right there, right in front of us in the vast mediascape. The version of feminist girls’ media studies on which I draw and to which I hope to contribute recognizes and grapples with this diverse, complex, and often contradictory field of representations of girls. Overall, my definition of feminist girls’ media studies centers work that addresses and engages much of the following: (1) complex, multiple, and multilayered media representations (not just dominant images and dominant media); (2) an intersectional perspective (especially in terms of race and sexuality); (3) historical specificity; (4) industry structure (including advertising, which incorporates niche marketing and the commodification of multiculturalism, postfeminism, and girl power); (5) public policy and activist work with girls; and (6) interdisciplinary ethnography. This kind of scholarship considers multiple approaches simultaneously and takes seriously a commitment to what Ella Shohat calls polycentric, multicultural feminism76—looking at multiple and diverse representations from many perspectives—regardless (or because) of the dominance of white, middle-class, heterosexual girls in the foreground of the cultural landscape. In this way, I hope not only to produce the kind of work the overviews of feminist girls’ media studies call for, but also to see beyond or around the “mean girls” and the “Taylor Swifts” as we look at and for the many other girls who populate the contemporary mediascape.

A Note on Defining “Girl” As I discuss in more detail in chapter 1, meanings of particular social categories—such as “child” and “girl”—vary considerably over time and across place,77 and thus it is necessary for me to articulate explicitly how

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pundits worry over tween behavior. Yet, twenty or so years ago, tweens did not exist, although of course there were people between the ages of eight and twelve. In short, the very existence of human beings we understand to be “children,” “teens,” or “tweens” is discursively produced and historically and socially specific. Because of this, if the categories are to continue to exist, public discourse must return to the concepts again and again, producing, maintaining, and sometimes transforming them in the process. As Judith Butler argues, it is through “repetition” that discourse constitutes identities.84 Like the meanings of “child,” “teen,” and “tween,” the meaning of “girl” is discursively determined through repetition, yet also transformed through representational shifts in particular historical moments, including the turn of the twenty-first century, the focus of this book. Scholars who focus on this time frame define girls in varying ways, implicitly drawing attention to the discursive versatility of “girl.” Some girls’ studies scholars define “girl” to include “young women” (usually college age).85 Other girls’ studies scholars are concerned with any cultural discussion of “girls,” including, for example, middle-aged women who call themselves or are called “girls.”86 Relatedly, Diane Negra and Yvonne Tasker have pointed out that postfeminism depends on a consumerist “girling” of grown women.87 And some African American scholars argue that because black girls are often denied girlhood, it is an important political move to claim girlhood for all black women.88 While I draw on all of this work, for the purposes of this study I generally define a “girl” as someone under the age of eighteen. I choose this age both because it is a current legal category (the age of majority) and because it approximates a current common life-stage change—the time at which many girls leave formal schooling and/or their parents’/caregivers’ home. Most important, however, by defining eighteen as an admittedly arbitrary and historically specific dividing line between girl and woman, I make space to address the specificity of girls as teens, tweens, and children. This specificity includes not only these categories but also the ways in which many girls under the age of eighteen are not granted “girlhood status,” particularly girls of color and girls who engage in public and/or queer sexuality, all of whom media and law often treat as adults. Alternatively, adult women who first rise to media visibility as children, tweens, or teens are rarely able to shake their status as girls, even when they are

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can-do/at-risk dichotomy, I identify several alternative representations of girls, some only slightly challenging the dominance of the can-do white girl and others more transformative. Overall, the chapter argues that while all alternative girlhoods in U.S. media culture are not necessarily ideal from a feminist perspective, it is nevertheless crucial to use criticism to identify and pause over these girlhoods in order both to mark their existence and to pursue as much resistant potential as possible in their depictions. Chapter 3 continues chapter 2’s overview of contemporary representations of girls, focusing on the first decade of the twenty-first century and turning to a second media form/genre: girl films. The chapter identifies the four girl films from the last decade that elicited the most public discussion about girls in the national press, on national television/radio, and/or in the alternative/left press: Mean Girls (2004), Little Miss Sunshine (2006), Juno (2007), and Precious (2009). Once again, adoration/disdain and anxiety about the girl and the girl star appear; however, some of the debates about the films extend to discussions of their “feminism” and pedagogical usefulness for girls negotiating media culture. After examining these central themes, the chapter draws on a feminist media studies methodology in pursuit of optimistic antiracist queer readings. I argue Mean Girls offers an implicit critique of heteronormativity, Little Miss Sunshine embraces girls’ autoeroticism, Juno provides a character who incessantly makes her own choices and thereby drives the narrative, and Precious defines African American girlhood as both valuable and vibrant. The chapter does not offer these readings as “better” or “more accurate” than others; rather it insists that by understanding the films in multiple and even sometimes contradictory ways feminist media criticism can intervene in and broaden the public discussion of girlhood. The fourth chapter is the first of two focused case studies of girls in turn-of-the-twenty-first-century media culture. Here, I examine tennis, a professional sport in which girl athletes often participate. In the late 1990s no fewer than fourteen high-profile teens were playing professional tennis, and first Venus Williams, Martina Hingis, and Anna Kournikova and then Amélie Mauresmo and Serena Williams, in particular, repeatedly made headlines in both the tennis world and nonsports media. I focus on Venus Williams in this context, engaging two

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on media structures through creative production; and they pay a great deal of attention to the cultural production of gender. While they do not do all of these things all of the time, while they do struggle at times to separate themselves from the Ophelia Thesis, and while they do not have as developed an understanding of the cultural production of race and class as they do of the cultural production of gender, nevertheless they are quite analytical of media. In short, by defining girls as media critics this final chapter takes one more step away from dominant white can-do/at-risk representations of girls and one more step toward taking seriously the presence of alternative girls in U.S. media culture and social life: the two central goals of this book.

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 Pint-Sized and Precocious The Girl Star in Film History I was one of the last human beings to meet Tatum O’Neal as a little girl. She wasn’t a completely happy little girl. But she hadn’t yet known, as her father put it, “the recognition  .  .  . the notoriety.” People still mistook her for a little boy.  .  .  . Now she is a movie star. . . . I hope she’s a happy movie star, but I don’t know that movie stars are happier than little girls. —Sam Blum, “The Real Love Story”

When my daughter was five years old, she frequently wore sunglasses. When she did, teachers, friends’ parents, and even strangers often commented, “You look like a movie star.” At the time, I was struck by how readily everyday girls such as my daughter could signify some of the meanings generated by and through the term “star”: glamour, tobe-looked-at-ness, performance, self-possession, independence, and (paradoxically) adultness. I was also struck by how commonplace the notion of a “girl star” is, so much so that the link between a five-yearold, sunglasses, and stardom appears perfectly transparent, yet also fascinating enough to remark on to perfect strangers. This chapter seeks to unpack this presumed transparency and high visibility by theorizing the girl star in the context of both star studies and girls’ studies. I ask two interrelated questions: What role has the girl played in the history of the star system? And, can the lens of star theory help explain the role that representations of girls play in U.S. media culture? In order to explore the connection between girls and stars, it is instructive to consider a key girl star of the 1970s: Tatum O’Neal. In the context of the book’s emphasis on turn-of-the-twenty-first-century media representations of girls, this first chapter’s look back to the 1970s sets up a historical context for subsequent chapters, one that can >>

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still spectacularized.7 While Foster and Shields went on to more successful Hollywood careers than did O’Neal and have come to define 1970s girl stardom,8 in the 1970s O’Neal was just as much a spectacular girl star as were Foster and Shields. It is not that O’Neal raises more important issues than do Foster or Shields, but rather that as an underresearched figure in the history of girls in U.S. media culture she not only deserves our attention but also provides an opportunity to complicate that history. In short, this chapter tells part of the history of girls in U.S. media culture, in this case in U.S. film, and helps explain how girls can be understood through codes of stardom, one aspect of celebrity culture. Celebrity studies scholars argue persuasively that there are important differences among, for example, film stars, accidental celebrities, and television personalities:9 “What constitutes celebrity in one cultural domain may be quite different in another.”10 Yet, as scholars also point out that the “pervasive circulation of contemporary media fame  .  .  . does not respect media borders.”11 However we define various types of fame, then, they all are related to the ideas of “well-knownness,”12 “commodity,”13 and “emulation or . . . contempt”14 that define celebrity. Thus this chapter both pays attention to the specificity of the history of the girl film star and defines her as an aspect of celebrity culture. Further, the chapter forges connections between star studies and girls’ studies to argue for the importance of star and celebrity culture in understanding the mediation of girlhood and the importance of an attention to girls in the history and theory of the star system. And it insists that attention be paid not only to a marginalized spectacular girl, but also to the ways that anxiety and tensions surrounding gender, race, and sexuality are part of the complex and fraught (both adored and abhorred) version of girlhood she represents. In all these ways, the chapter provides a context for and initiates many of the overarching concerns of this book. The chapter begins with an analysis of the place of the girl star in previous (primarily feminist) film studies scholarship on stars and the star system. Here, I tell a brief history of the girl star and argue that, although she has been under-examined in film studies, this scholarship inadvertently illustrates that the girl star is pervasive in and germane to the star system, a figure in need of careful attention. In the next section, I offer a case study of Tatum O’Neal, her first film (Paper Moon, 1973),

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and complicated in the early 1990s, it is still common17 to read the story of the battle for market dominance between Biograph and the independents, particularly Independent Moving Pictures (IMP). As the story goes, IMP won the battle when it invented star marketing by staging a publicity stunt in which it claimed there were false reports of a famous “Biograph Girl’s” death. The death was a hoax, and IMP would later not only reveal that she was very much alive, but also publish her name for the first time: Florence Lawrence, now the new “IMP Girl.” While deCordova shows that this particular publicity stunt was not, in fact, the “beginning” of the star system, nor the first time a film actor’s name was revealed, he also establishes the fact that the publicity stunt did happen and thereby illustrates (but does not remark on) the fact that the concept of “girl” was a key marketing tool in the early star system.18 Through deCordova, then, I would suggest that “girl,” even at this very early point, could be understood to be synonymous with “star” (as in “Biograph star,” “IMP star”) and therefore to be central to the evolving star system and the eventual solidification of the entire Hollywood structure. Like deCordova, Heidi Kenaga does not comment on the use of the term “girl” in her discussion of the “movie-struck fan” and the “extra girl” in the 1920s, but she does illustrate that these figures articulated social anxiety about single women/girls in the context of labor, public space, and the growing Hollywood film industry.19 Kenaga shows that in 1925 a narrative about the management of the girl helped connect the Central Casting Bureau (CCB) to the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America’s role in the representation of Hollywood as self-regulating. As early as 1914, religious and civic organizations, as well as newspapers and fan magazines, worried about “hoards” of girls coming to Hollywood in hopes of becoming movie stars. Hollywood’s response was to regulate these girls/women, establishing the CCB to screen, manage, and provide extras (primarily conceived of as women and children)20 to all the major studios at set wages and working-hour limits. Additionally, the CCB worked in concert with the YWCA to establish the Hollywood Studio Club, providing housing for the movie star hopefuls, as well as education designed to help them find employment. In short, through the CCB and the Hollywood Studio Club, the figure of the girl helped to produce an industry structure that both

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Not only does previous star studies work illustrate the girl’s role in establishing and maintaining industry structure, but it also alludes to her role in defining the meaning of “star” itself, even if these allusions are left frustratingly (for me) underdeveloped. For example, in Diane Negra’s excellent analysis of white ethnicity in Hollywood cinema, she complicates our understanding of cinematic whiteness by addressing a tension between the white ethnic childlike star (coded as virginal, demystified, assimilable) and the white ethnic womanlike star (coded as sexual, mystified, troublesome). She writes, “Throughout this book, I employ the dichotomy of girl/woman as a functional conceit, in part to draw attention to a broader pattern of differentiation in Hollywood between the safe sexuality of the girl and the often troublesome sexuality of the woman, but also to indicate how female ethnicity has been particularly subject to representation on these polarized terms.” More specifically, she suggests that a girlish white ethnic star can more easily be “celebrated as an exemplary American; even if her ethnicity is prominently displayed, the very fact of her girlishness promises that it may yet be traded away.”26 While other work on girl stars (including my analysis of Tatum O’Neal below) would challenge Negra’s claim that the girl’s sexuality is necessarily safe,27 her point that the girl/woman dichotomy is central to the representation of the ethnic woman is provocative, and thus she gestures toward the importance of a tension between childishness and adultishness in the female star system, emphasizing that tension’s relationship to both sexuality and ethnicity. Like Negra’s work, Richard Dyer’s influential analysis of Judy Garland and gay men’s relationship to her also offers insights about the status of the girl star, although Dyer develops this even less than does Negra. For example, he argues that Garland’s pre-1950s “ordinariness,” which—post-1950—turned out to be not so ordinary, was analogous to gay men’s experience: “To turn out not-ordinary after being saturated with the values of ordinariness structures Garland’s career and the standard gay biography alike.”28 While Dyer does not refer specifically to girlhood here, the pre-1950s Garland included all her childhood roles, as well as the roles that addressed her transition to adulthood. Thus it is Judy Garland as former girl star that provides much of the ordinariness on which Dyer builds his argument, although he does not say so. Later in the chapter, he mentions her “in-betweenness” and suggests

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portraying a child (as opposed to an actual child functioning as an erotic object). Thus, paradoxically, as Studlar has it, Pickford films drew on discourses of sexuality and the new woman while simultaneously evoking nostalgia that distanced Pickford from the perceived crisis of contemporary femininity.34 Tibbetts and Studlar read Pickford differently—either as in transition and therefore in need of protection, or as in stasis and therefore available for erotic nostalgia—but together they illustrate two principal tensions that, as my analysis of Tatum O’Neal shows, persist in relationship to girl stars: (1) protection of, yet also desire for, the girl, and (2) the girl as simultaneously in transition and static/nostalgic. Yet they also clearly place Pickford in the context of early twentieth-century discourses about reform, femininity, and women’s evolving public sexuality, hence illustrating historical specificity. Thus this scholarship helps illustrate both the ongoing importance of the girl in media culture and the specificity of a particular girl’s historical moment. Scholars focusing on girl stars in the 1930s and 1940s—such as Shirley Temple, Deanna Durbin, and Judy Garland—draw on a similar methodology to address the historical specificity of discourses of nation and nationalism. For example, Georganne Scheiner argues that in many 1930s films it was girls who were capable of “‘fixing’ the problems of their elders,” problems that were often figured as problems of the nation.35 And, focusing on the 1940s, Ilana Nash argues that sexual tension in girl star films—such as coming-of-age comedies that include a troubling potential attraction between a teenage girl and an older man—ultimately was nonthreatening because it was resolved through patriotism coupled with what always turned out to be the girl’s actual sexual innocence.36 Like Studlar, Nash sees the films as both evoking and disavowing child sexuality, and Nash then links that ambivalent sexuality to the postwar U.S. context. Unsurprisingly, with the explosion of discourse about the teenager and the related category of juvenile delinquent after World War II and up through the 1960s, girls appeared as objects of vulnerability resulting from the tumultuous changes of the postwar era. Timothy Shary considers exploitation and delinquency films in particular in his work.37 The big-budget film Splendor in the Grass (1961) is a good example here, in which destruction and despair result from delinquency and (girls’)

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Based on my girls’ studies–focused analysis of this previous star studies scholarship, it is clear that the girl star is an important and consistent cog in the wheel not only of the star system and the structure of the Hollywood industry in general, but also of the discursive and ideological relationship between Hollywood films and the cultural and social context of their moment of production and distribution. I argue, then, that given the frequent relationship between girl stars and cultural discourses of feminism, gender, and sexuality, feminist film studies needs to take girl stars seriously, not only as markers of particular historical moments, as the bulk of the research has done, but also as a Hollywood system and structure, as some of this research does at least implicitly. My argument here for theoretical attention to the girl star is analogous to Negra’s argument for attention to the white ethnic star. She writes, “I envision this project as part of an ongoing effort by feminist film theorists and historians to understand women’s representational history, and thus it is deliberately centered around actresses whom traditional film histories have tended to overlook or dismiss.”45 Here, then, I deliberately center the girl star, a figure traditionally overlooked in star studies; and I deliberately focus on Tatum O’Neal, a figure traditionally overlooked in studies of 1970s girl stars. In the next section, I further develop an understanding of the girl star by addressing two conditions of visibility that become clear through a close analysis of O’Neal: whiteness and ambivalent anxiety. By considering O’Neal in part in relation to other girl stars, I argue that these conditions of visibility are not unique to O’Neal but rather are part of the very structure of the Hollywood star system, a structure that becomes particularly clear when examined through the lens of the girl star.

Conditions of Visibility While previous scholarship on girl stars looks at cultural anxiety, little of it (other than Negra’s) addresses race and the production of whiteness. In what follows, then, I turn first to a history of the requirement of whiteness for the girl star and then illustrate how the example of O’Neal in Paper Moon (a film that deals explicitly with a relationship between a black girl and a white girl) crystalizes this requirement. Here, I build on and add to the history of the girl stars I present above, both

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performed regularly while they were still children, Dorothy Dandridge (African American, born 1923) and Rita Moreno (Puerto Rican, born 1931) each made one film before the age of eighteen. And Cuban singer Estelita Rodriguez (born 1928 and known as “the Cuban Shirley Temple”)49 moved to the United States and made two singing Westerns for Republic Pictures before the age of eighteen; she then went on to a successful career as an adult, as did Dandridge and Moreno. Other than these five, however, I was unable to find a pre-1980s nonwhite star who appeared in leading film roles while still a girl. Anna May Wong’s non-child roles (performed when she was sixteen and seventeen) stand in sharp contrast to Mary Pickford’s perpetualchild roles (performed well into her adulthood). As many scholars have argued, women of color are defined culturally as always already and perpetually sexual50 and as adultlike even as very young children.51 Thus, teenage Wong’s sexualized adult roles should come as no surprise. Relatedly, even as the films and fan magazine discourse naturalized Wong’s mature sexuality, there was public anxiety about white girls’ ambiguous sexuality, as Tibbetts and Studlar explain in relation to Mary Pickford. In other words, juxtaposing Wong’s stardom to Pickford’s highlights that the cultural anxiety surrounding Pickford is not about girls’ sexuality, but rather about white girls’ sexuality.52 Shirley Temple, of course, is a key example here in the history of sexualized white girl stars, and, again, thinking about her sexuality in relation to a star of color—in this case the famous African American dancer and actor Bill “Bojangles” Robinson—is instructive. In her study of the screen relationship of Temple and Robinson, Karen Orr Vered addresses the way Temple’s films and iconic status produce and maintain whiteness.53 Specifically, she looks at the nearly complete absence of material on Robinson in the white press coverage of Temple. A Modern Screen spread from 1938–1939, for example, features “The Men in Shirley Temple’s Life!” but does not include a picture of Robinson, despite the fact that Temple appeared in four films with him. The only picture of Temple and Robinson together that Vered found in the mainstream press was in an article about Temple’s “physical condition.” The article pairs pictures of Temple and Robinson dancing with a picture of Temple playing tennis and another of Temple running with a dog. Vered argues persuasively that this layout “relegates the professional dancing

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white girlness in relation to Johnson’s black girlness, I seek to center racialization in my definition of the girl star as articulated by O’Neal and through Paper Moon. Multiple articles about the film quote Bogdanovich recalling the following, somewhat long-winded story about Tatum O’Neal and her implicit relationship to sexuality: I went to see [Tatum O’Neal and her father, Ryan] on the beach where they live and apparently Ryan hadn’t told her anything. Tatum was just herself, a nice little girl, a little bit precocious. Ryan was standing behind the bar in his bathing suit. I’m dressed, like normal, but everyone else is dressed like for the beach. Ryan tells me that I should get into shape, do some exercises. And Tatum pipes up, sort of in disgust, “Oh, Daddy, he’s not the type!” I told her to go play in traffic and told Ryan that she got the part. I never saw another girl; that was it, Ryan and Tatum. Perfect.60

Tatum’s61 reported comment, “Oh, Daddy, he’s not the type!” can be understood to be about adult anxiety about body image and, tangentially, sexuality. It is an earnest, confident, powerful, and dangerous comment (leading to Bogdanovich’s suggestion that she go play in traffic). But it is not particularly “knowing” or “conscious” about sexuality: it is precocious. Tatum is sexual and forward; she is ahead of herself. In other words, Bogdanovich eroticizes Tatum by representing her as a child who comments on male sexuality, but he does not represent her as really understanding what she is saying, even as her words bespeak both self-awareness and self-possession. Bogdanovich’s representation of Tatum as precocious child deviates sharply from his comments about the process of hiring teenager Johnson: “P. J. Johnson played Trixie’s maid. And we saw about seven girls. They were OK. Nobody was great. They all did readings. P. J. came in. And as she’s walking, she’s sixteen-years-old, and she looks at me, she says, ‘Oowhee, you good-looking.’ I said, ‘You just got the part.’ [big laugh] That was it. I thought, ‘If that girl has the guts to say that, she’d be all right.’”62 For Bogdanovich, both Tatum and Johnson are “naturals,” but in different ways: Tatum because she unconsciously knows something of

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the racist structure of the environment in which Imogene lives. Imogene tells Addie she became Trixie’s maid because Trixie promised to pay her four dollars a week, but that she never has paid more than “a nickel or a dime,” every so often. When Addie asks, “Why don’t you quit?” Imogene says she can’t because she “ain’t got no money to get home to mama.” This scene, then, acknowledges the legacy of slavery, Jim Crow, and domestic work for African American women and girls, and it depicts Addie as naive, yet teachable and sympathetic. Regardless of the film’s liberal critique of (former) racism, in the context of the 1970s star system and this film in particular, which centers Ryan O’Neal (Tatum’s real-life father) as its star and “introduces” Tatum O’Neal as a new star in the opening credits, Addie/O’Neal’s whiteness ensures her survival and centrality in the film, while Imogene/Johnson’s blackness, even though it functions to critique racism and to problematize whiteness, ultimately serves a supporting role to Addie/O’Neal’s white centrality and ensures that Imogene/Johnson will disappear. This structure is particularly clear in Imogene’s final scene. In the first extremely long sequence of a con in the film, orchestrated by Addie and carried out by Addie and Imogene, the two girls conspire to break up Trixie and Moze. For Addie, this means getting her father/friend back, and for Imogene it means an escape from Trixie. (Addie has promised to give Imogene thirty dollars to get home to her mother if she helps with the con; unlike Trixie, Addie keeps her economic promise.) The sequence ends with a wide-angle tracking shot, quickly pulling away from Imogene as she stands still in the middle of the elongated hallway and waves a small, slow wave to Addie, who is rushing forward in concert with the camera, looking over her shoulder, smiling and waving energetically to Imogene. Despite the fact that Addie and Imogene bond more directly and more quickly than even Addie and Moze, this shot emphasizes an insurmountable literal and figurative distance between Addie and Imogene. Because Addie is close to the camera, she appears large in the frame and remains so as she moves with the camera, while Imogene appears to become smaller and smaller in the frame as she stands still and the camera pulls away: the girls are now separated and, as their size difference in the frame symbolically implies, will likely never see each other again. For me, Imogene’s little wave at the end is sad, while Addie’s is jubilant. While Imogene now has enough money to

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only girls who become film stars are white (although this is most often the case) but that “girl star,” as a category, defines and reinforce whiteness. By comparing Addie/O’Neal to Imogene/Johnson and Anna May Wong to Mary Pickford, and by drawing on Vered’s comparison of Temple to Robinson, I mean to illustrate the production of whiteness through the structure of “girl star,” a process that draws on blackness to shore up whiteness. While Robinson and Johnson make explicit and therefore destabilize Temple’s and O’Neal’s whiteness momentarily within the diegesis and (potentially) long term for the spectator, the films and the mainstream popular press surrounding Temple, O’Neal, and Paper Moon solidify an unspoken whiteness. By drawing a connection between Temple and O’Neal, who function so similarly in two very different time periods, I want to suggest that girl star as a cinematic category produces, maintains, and requires whiteness. As many other scholars have shown, the production of whiteness is certainly not unique to the girl star, but arguably it is a condition of her visibility. Ambivalence and Anxiety Why might anxiety and ambivalence also be a condition of visibility for the girl star, a key piece of her structure? I would argue it is because the terms “child” and “star” do not fit seamlessly together. Child stars are loved (in large part) because they are children, but if the adoration is for childhood, the love (and therefore often the stardom) will disappear when the children inevitably become adults. Thus, attention paid to a child star always includes an ambivalent nostalgia for the fleeting present combined with a threat of future abandonment by one’s object of adoration (and an embedded despair about that future loss). Additionally, both media discussions of child stars and public and legal policy about them (e.g., labor laws, number of hours allowed on the set, educational requirements) express anxiety about the very existence of child stars. In other words, if we love them so much, how can we torture them by making them work long hours, encouraging them to perform scenes with adult themes, and stealing their childhoods even as they come to embody through their performances an idealized childhood? How can we allow their parents to exploit them for economic gain and thereby acquire vicarious and sometimes actualized personal fame? Further,

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Explicitly defining O’Neal as woman, Vogue chose her for its June 1973 column on “The American Woman in the Movies.” Claiming that O’Neal plays “the American woman at her strong-headed, firm-hearted best: intelligent, independent, ready for anything,” Davis also assures Vogue readers that O’Neal has “a private store of feminine self-doubt, of love for pretty clothes, of devotion to the man she loves.” Thus she is both independent (an adultlike feminist) and typically feminine (with adultlike concerns). Later in the short article, Davis writes that O’Neal “must have been weaned on diet soda, because there is no sugar anywhere in her system,” and thereby implicitly suggests she is a Vogue-style independent woman who eschews traditionally feminine ways (sugar) while perhaps embracing modern femininity (dieting). The article ends by implying that O’Neal’s skill and appeal mean that she will make many more films, “unless, of course, she decided to be President, instead.” Davis’s implicitly feminist comment about a future woman president points to another important binary in O’Neal’s persona: femininity/masculinity. Bit characters in Paper Moon mistake her character for a boy, and, in fact, the film invites the audience to make the same mistake as well: the first image of Addie is a low-angle shot of her face with a pageboy haircut, looking down at the camera, with an open landscape and wide sky in the background. This shot, including a distinctly Western genre setting, suggests a masculinity that Hatch reads as tomboyism.72 Addie explicitly objects to similar mistakes within the diegesis, and Moze responds by buying her a dress and hair ribbons. Nevertheless, she dresses in her masculine overalls through most of the film. And, of course, O’Neal famously wore a tuxedo to the Academy Awards. In the press, O’Neal expresses her displeasure with being mistaken for a boy, but the articles nevertheless play up the gender tension. For example, Time reports, “Her perky performance in Paper Moon is being compared with the classic childhood performances of Jackie Coogan and Jackie Cooper. Still, such mega praise does not entirely please nine-yearold Tatum O’Neal. ‘It’s not the funnest thing in the world being called a boy,’ she laments in her husky voice.”73 Not content to allow her complaint to stand, the article mentions her husky voice, reminding readers of her masculinity. Nevertheless, this same article includes the detail that O’Neal likes “big elevator shoes and great clothes,” thereby suggesting

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is often tied to questions about O’Neal’s childhood and/or femininity, questions that are set up and authorized by the adult/child and feminine/masculine binaries. A (Former) Tortured Childhood Many articles articulate anxiety about Tatum’s difficult childhood, but then displace the concern by suggesting that her difficulties are all in the past. In one article, Ryan reports that Tatum used to “take a scissors to herself,” cutting out clumps of her hair.74 Time says that “Tatum’s childhood has been more gothic than glamorous”75 and that her mother used drugs, but it then reports that her parents are now divorced. Similarly, Ryan “used” to be a playboy, “but those ruffian days are all over.”76 The articles have it both ways, then, reporting on the titillating details of Tatum’s tortured childhood and Ryan’s playboy lifestyle while simultaneously insisting that this odd father/daughter pair has achieved some kind of nuclear family–like normality. Making the film Paper Moon, in particular, has presumably helped them settle into family life. For example, Tatum reports, “What was good about the film was that I got to know my father better.” The same article quotes Ryan saying “I felt if we did this movie together . . . my God, we’d be connected for life. It would undo the years we were not together.”77 Another article emphasizes the tortured childhood, but nevertheless ends with a happy present. In “The Real Love Story,” Ryan reports that “Tatum had fallen off a roof and broken her foot and nobody had done anything about it.” In the end, Ryan says, Tatum and her mother had a “fist fight” and Tatum left. The article ends, however, with Ryan claiming that Tatum and her mother have reconciled and, “since then, all has been well between them.”78 Overall, the articles work to suggest that things are better now, although the many details about Tatum’s troubled childhood (which, of course, she is still in, given that she is only nine years old) that emerge either within each article or across multiple articles keep the anxiety very much alive. Thus there is ambivalence about tortured childhood: both a concern about it, and a pleasure in reporting it; both an insistence that it is in the past (hence authorizing the titillating pleasure), and an almost obsessive impulse to report it repetitively and in detail, thereby keeping it in the discursive present. Given that this

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identity of the “little girl,” and that parents can be part of the danger, too, even as filmmaking, press interviews, and stage parents are all nevertheless required for the very existence of the “[girl] movie star.” Importantly, being mistaken for a boy is somehow part and parcel of being a little girl, which in turn is antithetical to being a movie star. For Blum, child and movie star are separate categories. While Tatum has been both, she cannot be both at one time. Thus the category “girl star” is an oxymoron, and the fact that Tatum O’Neal is in fact both a girl and a star is a contradiction impossible to resolve. That contradiction, then, means that ambivalence is always at the heart of the girl star. How Sexual Is Tatum O’Neal? Thus far, I have discussed the anxious ambivalence surrounding O’Neal in terms of ironic binaries, a tortured childhood, and the oxymoron of the child star. In each case, the fact that she is a girl (not a boy) is not central to the cultural anxiety, even when it is a topic for discussion. In other words, even for the ironic masculine/feminine binary, the child star in question, hypothetically, could be a boy and the anxiety could still operate. In terms of sexuality, however, the fact that O’Neal is a female star, a girl star, is crucial. It is, after all, anxiety about a heterosexual male gaze at the too-sexual girl that drives much public discussion of girl stars, and O’Neal is no exception. Importantly, however, the film Paper Moon itself does not emphasize a feminine sexual to-be-looked-at-ness for O’Neal or for Addie. While Addie and Moze are close, and while, for example, they do engage in frequent testy exchanges that might be associated with the erotic sexual banter commonly found in screwball comedies, Moze is interested in other women and spends much of his time trying to get rid of Addie. Further, Moze’s adult companion, Trixie, is hyper-sexualized (through costume, performance, references to prostitution, and the depiction of an erotic relationship between her and Moze), serving as the feminine sensual center of the film and thereby deflecting sexuality away from Addie. The press nevertheless proceeds to sexualize O’Neal, constructing her as sexually available and thereby authorizing her stardom. The starkest and most unapologetic example of her sexualization appears in a Vogue article with the double-entendre title “Tatum Takes Off.” Primarily a photo spread, O’Neal appears dressed as Raquel Welch,

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the supposed dangers of the representation of girl stars as sexual.87 I want to reflect on one 1977 Ms. magazine article by Molly Haskell, in particular, because it raises questions about the representation of sexual children in a more explicitly feminist way than does any of the other coverage. The title, “Tatum O’Neal and Jodie Foster: Their Combined Age Is 27—What Is Hollywood Trying to Tell Us?” initiates a common critique of the very existence of girl actors in Hollywood. Haskell does not waste any time telling us what she thinks Hollywood is trying to tell us. She says that the girls are “kiddies, moppets, and nymphets.” They are “teenybopper sex symbols,” and O’Neal and Foster in particular are a “baddy-baddy” and “teenage temptress,” respectively.88 These girl stars use “suggestive looks and gutter language [and] seem to have been there and done it all.” Articulating what appears in much of the press coverage of O’Neal, Haskell argues that these girl stars offer a “double titillation, the extremes of innocence and depravity.”89 Not only Haskell’s contemporary journalistic feminism, but also more recent feminist scholarship sexualizes O’Neal. For example, in an essay focused primarily on Brooke Shields, Hatch also lists O’Neal, along with Melanie Griffith, Nastassja Kinski, Linda Blair, and Jodie Foster, as having “all achieved stardom through a sexual precocity that led them to be labeled at one point or another as a new incarnation of Lolita.”90 But, as I illustrate here, unlike the other actors Hatch lists, O’Neal’s sexuality is raised only in the press during the early 1970s, not in the film Paper Moon.91 The fact that both scholarship and the popular press nevertheless eroticize O’Neal suggests that—by definition—the girl star is both sexual and in danger because of that sexuality. Anxiety and ambivalence about that sexuality is a condition of her visibility and will be ascribed to her, regardless. Critics Love/Hate the Girl Star In her Ms. article, Haskell not only points out the sexualization of the child star, but also argues that, in the context of 1970s feminism, this emphasis on the sexual girl child is a way for Hollywood to avoid making films with “full-fledged honest-to-goodness thinking and talking grown-up women.  .  .  . For the man whose ego is sustained not by inherent worth, but by a sense of superiority over the weaker sex, there is a need for constant worshipful glances from the ‘little woman.’

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Part of the girl star phenomenon, then, is not only adoration of but also hostility toward girls, if not in the films themselves then certainly in the marketing and press surrounding them. Again, ambivalence dominates and drives the discourse about the girl star; along with anxiety about sexuality and the deleterious effects of stardom on the childhood of a girl, it is a condition of her visibility.

Conclusion: The Girl as the Epitome of the Star System Much of the anxiety and ambivalence about O’Neal is tied, in particular, to her status as girl. The tension between child and adult—sometimes linked to a tension between masculinity (childish tomboy) and femininity (knowing erotic object)—the anxiety about lost childhood and early sexualization, the hostility toward and disdain for the girl, and the impossibility of imagining that a childhood innocence can be maintained once a girl becomes a star, all illustrate the specificity of the girl star, both child and female. Similarly, the history of the girl star I tell through previous scholarship on the film industry, the star system, and the relationship between girl stars and their historical context emphasizes the specificity of the girl star. In other words, thus far this chapter has identified the particularities of the girl star. I turn now, however, to a discussion of how those particularities can be seen to epitomize the star system, in general. This move returns to my interest early in the chapter in illustrating the centrality of the girl to the U.S. star industry. By arguing that the girl star can be understood as the epitome of the star system, I mean that she is the perfect example, the distillation, even the intensification of several aspects of the U.S. Hollywood star system. I see this as being the case in at least three ways. First, not only is the girl star usually white, but her whiteness is deepened. Of course, statistically, for both children and adults, there are obviously many fewer stars of color, particularly up until the 1970s when Tatum O’Neal emerged. Yet, if we think of the many, many important exceptions to that rule, the names that come to mind are adults: for example, Philip Ahn, Sessue Hayakawa, Rita Hayworth, Nancy Kwan, Carmen Miranda, Hattie McDaniel, Ricardo Montalbán, Sidney Poitier, Paul Robeson, Bill Robinson, and Raquel Welch. Despite the dominance of whiteness, there is an important and complex history of adult

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complexity of being a full subject in the world, and she is also an individual example of the pleasures of boundary crossing, of either inhabiting a not-fully-individualized-childlike subjectivity or inhabiting a fully-individualized-adultlike subjectivity ahead of time, precociously. That she poses risks and threatens to destabilize social conventions and norms makes her a highly intriguing site of negotiation over the meaning of the social subject. If the whiteness of girl stars functions to intensify the overall whiteness of the star system, one that disavows the complexity and importance of race and ethnicity, here the girl emphasizes a central tension of the star system, heightening the anxiety at the heart of the conflicts between the individual and the social and between the exceptional and the everyday that Gledhill, Mayne, and Dyer identify in the star system. The issue of anxiety leads me to the third way in which girl stars can be understood as the epitome of the star system: as a scandal. In his history of the star system, deCordova lays out four stages to the development of the star system, beginning with the actor, then the picture personality, then the star, and finally the “star scandal.” He argues that in the 1920s the coverage of the star shifted from adoration of the person both on- and off-screen (the third stage of the star, proper) to the fourth stage, including scandal and anxiety about star behavior. He suggests that, in part, this shift took place because of increased media coverage, as daily newspapers (tied less directly to Hollywood industries) began to cover star behavior. While some of this coverage was about high-profile scandals, most infamously Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle’s trial for the manslaughter of Virginia Rappe,100 deCordova also points out that high-profile divorces (e.g., Mary Pickford and Owen Moore) and remarriages (e.g., Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks, one month after Pickford’s divorce was final) were part of the coverage of scandal. In his book’s conclusion, deCordova argues provocatively that the ongoing eruption of various star scandals illustrates that little changed in the fourth stage of the star system between the 1920s when it emerged and his contemporary moment of the 1980s.101 Regardless of whether one is persuaded by this expansive historical argument, it seems clear that the concept of the “star scandal” was very much a part of the production of Tatum O’Neal as a star in the 1970s, particularly in the anxiety about her relationship with her father and the “danger” of filmmaking for Tatum

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Hudgens) and sometimes “fifteen-minutes-of-fame” “accidental”4 celebrities who are thrust into notoriety because of something that happens to them (JonBenét Ramsey appears most frequently in this category). In either case, when these girls appear on magazine covers they are spectacular figures we must care about, at least for the time they occupy our conscious attention, even if we are just passing by. In the previous chapter, I explore theories of the star, concentrating on film studies and the film industry. There, I argue that the girl star epitomizes the whiteness, the status of the individual in society, and the pursuit of the (sexualized) scandal/secret at the heart of the star, particularly in the context of twentieth-century U.S. film history. In this chapter, I build on this work but also shift to a broader, more contemporary concept of the “celebrity.” As Sean Redmond and Su Holmes argue, “There is now a vast range of media sites through which modern celebrity can emerge. Mass, digital and narrowcast media outlets, often in a synergetic relationship, enable the famous to be pictured, photographed, broadcast, podcast, and filmed in real time, offering a 24/7 relay across the globe.”5 Further, they address how, in the context of multiple contemporary media platforms that enable incessant access, the contemporary celebrity is often gendered female and concomitantly “devalued.”6 As Milly Williamson puts it, “Widespread scorn and derision directed at celebrities is aimed predominantly at a particular kind of female celebrity,” one who violates rules of appropriate femininity and motherhood.7 This celebrity studies scholarship therefore suggests that the ubiquity of images of girls does not necessarily mean girls have power, but rather that the contemporary media’s fascination with girls is linked to a feminization of the concept of celebrity, and that the tension between can-do and at-risk in depictions of girls relates to a “dichotomy between idolization and denigration of stars” that Leo Braudy points out “has long been with us.”8 For Christine Geraghty, this is the “star-as-celebrity,” with an intense “emphasis on the private life” regardless of what professional work the individual may (or may not) be producing.9 In the context of this chapter on magazine cover girls—which includes celebrity girls who appear on television and in politics and who play sports, but also girls who become celebrities not because of something notable they do but rather because of something unexpected that happens to them (e.g.,

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against the statistically dominant girls on the covers. I ask: How might one complicate the pervasive depictions of whiteness and the can-do/ at-risk binary? What alternatives are there, even if they appear rarely? And how much of an against-the-grain reading is possible when we look longest at those few covers that open up questions about sexuality, race, and girls’ agency outside a can-do/at-risk binary? In other words, in this chapter, I first (empirically) count, acknowledge, and document all the cover girls to appear on Time, Newsweek, and People from January 1990 to July 2012, but I then turn to the examples that I define as alternative and see as articulating the most diversity and complexity. In the process, I argue that the statistically dominant girl on these magazines is white and caught between anxiety and adoration, but that several alternative girls also emerge, girls who complicate the can-do girls’ racial identity, challenge nationalism, and at least in part escape the oscillation between at-risk and can-do. While I have to work relatively hard to find these alternative girls, a key goal of this chapter is to argue for and illustrate the importance of approaching all instances of girlhood in contemporary U.S. media culture in a way that makes it possible to see these girls, to see those girlhoods that do not so much resist the anxious adoration and whiteness of the can-do/at-risk dichotomy, but that make them—if only temporarily—beside the point.

Cover Girls The girls who appear on the covers of Time, Newsweek, and People from January 1990 to July 2012 can be organized into three categories, the first two of which include celebrity girls: (1) athletes, teen celebrities, or children of political figures (girls who are famous because of who they are or what they do); (2) girls who are dead, kidnapped and dead, or kidnapped and rescued (famous because of what happened to them); and (3) girls who function as symbols of some social ill or good (unlike the other two categories, these girls are nameless, on the cover not because of who they are but because of what they represent). All three types of girls are offered as objects of concern, adoration, or both. The bulk of my analysis in the subsequent section of this chapter focuses on the first two categories in order to foreground the spectacular girl celebrity—whether she is a full-fledged celebrity actively engaged in

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In addition to concern about pushing teen athletes too hard and early puberty, cover girls mark anxiety about general social issues such as school segregation,18 lead poisoning,19 and September 11.20 They also encourage worry about issues directly related to girls, such as child beauty pageants,21 eating disorders,22 and global prostitution.23 Yet numerous cover girls also illustrate social successes such as homeschooling,24 the joys of fatherhood,25 and the best high schools in the United States;26 and they illustrate just how well girls are doing not only as well-balanced gamma girls but also as everyday heroes27 and Harry Potter fans.28 In short, collectively these many covers contribute to a cultural investment in the can-do/at-risk dichotomy of girlhood, one that ensures a persistent oscillation between celebration of and anxiety about girls. Importantly, regardless of their characterization, the vast majority of the girls appear to be white—78 percent—and the most vulnerable atrisk girls in need of the reader/viewer’s protection are very young and white, usually blonde with blue, green, or hazel eyes, looking into the camera as if asking for help, often from beyond the grave. The bestknown example here is likely JonBenét Ramsey, who appeared on more covers (seven) than all other individual girls during the twenty-two and a half years of Time, Newsweek, and People covers I analyzed. Their blondeness makes them unequivocally white,29 and concomitantly, their innocence makes the girls who matter—the girls who qualify as “lost girls,” the girls who stand in for “every parents’ worst nightmare”— white.30 This is an unspoken, yet excessive, white and innocent girlhood. Thus girls of color are doubly marginalized: they appear infrequently, and when they do appear, they are often spectacles of anxiety, not adoration or protection.31 Generic teen girls, who face issues such as eating disorders and sexual exploitation and the dangers of the Internet, most often also appear to be white, but they more often have dark hair and sometimes appear to be generically ethnic: Jewish? Latina? Mixed?32 They usually face away from the camera, often looking down, and seem to bear some (but not all) responsibility for their troubles. For example, a People cover about eating disorders features a girl who appears white–ethnic: the small print reveals that her name is Wendy Levey from New York City, which one might imagine could mean “Jewish.” She looks down—perhaps at a mirror off camera or maybe at a television set or magazine cover such as the one on

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spectacular in part because of their difference. Additionally, my focus here is on the first two categories of girls that I mention in the previous section: girls who either were well-known before appearing on the cover (daughters of politicians, teen celebrities, and sport stars) or who drew sufficient attention at the time they appeared on the cover that a casual viewer might already know a few details of their stories when seeing the cover (kidnapped and/or dead girls). By emphasizing girls who are (at least temporarily) spectacular in their fame, my goal is to address a more complex girlhood than those represented by the fleeting symbolic girl (the third category in the previous section), to consider girlhoods that can be imagined to escape the bounds of the magazine covers. Further, in pursuit of more complexity, multiplicity, and resistant/feminist readings when examining girls I define as alternative, in this section I analyze the cover story along with the cover image. By looking closely at alternative cover girls on and in the very same magazines that produce the dominant cover girl, I seek to use the magazines against themselves. I organize my discussion by separating the celebrity girls into four more specific types: (1) daughters of high-profile politicians, (2) teen celebrities, (3) sports stars, and (4) girls who become (temporarily) famous through vulnerability: death and/or kidnapping. In each section, I first discuss the majority girls and then move on to a fuller, more subjective discussion of the ways in which some of the cover girls offer alternative girlhoods. I start with the two categories that seem to offer the least opportunity for challenging the dominant white, can-do/ at-risk version of girlhood: the daughters of politicians and the teen celebrities. From there, I turn to the sports stars, who I argue have the potential to open up a critique of nationalism, and then conclude with an analysis of the kidnapped and/or dead girls. These girls, despite (or maybe because of) their trauma, allow me to develop the most resistant reading of some mass-magazine cover girls as nonnormative girls who, despite their spectacularization, can be read as making choices that cannot fully be reduced to can-do/at-risk. Daughters of Political Figures Between January 1990 and July 2012, the children of the three U.S. presidents with school-age or teenage children appeared on the cover of

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members (or three if Barack is out of town), and talking, as Michelle reports, “about Daddy being President, about adolescence, about the questions they have.”48 The second article focuses less attention on the girls, but carries over the theme of the girls being the “top priority.” The “Obamas’ To-Do List” includes “holding life steady for their two daughters,” finding a school so the girls can feel “settled,” and making “the White House their own” so that the girls “feel comfortable.”49 As African American girls in the public eye, Sasha and Malia Obama function as both evidence that “all people” can achieve the American Dream—hence as the most model of model minorities—and as postracial girl role models who maintain a healthy, balanced, and modest lifestyle, regardless of their surroundings or how famous and powerful their father is. Like wish fulfillments, they embody a seemingly postracial future in which their father is president and they are his can-do daughters—of course achieving and maintaining that status with the sage and supportive help of their idealized parents. How alternative are Sasha and Malia when their cover girl status is as perfect, can-do, postracial girls? Yes, they redefine the idealized girl as African American. As Cheryl Wall argues when writing about President Obama’s first inauguration day, “What a wonder it was that surely for the first time in history, if only for a day, the most adored children in the world were two little black girls.”50 Yes, they break with the typical image of the girl of color as at-risk. In these two ways, Sasha and Malia’s presence on the covers of these magazines shifts the racialization of the can-do/at-risk dichotomy. Yet the can-do girl is still an impossible ideal—a spectacular image produced for avid consumption in the context of postfeminism and neoliberalism—even if it now includes two particularly famous African American girls. Can-do status, in general, is still beyond the reach of an everyday girl who likely does not have the time, economic resources, and/or political connections necessary to achieve a full can-do identity. Certainly, here, as first daughters, Sasha and Malia’s can-do status is abstract and unattainable—it is phenomenal. Further, as Kent Ono argues, the very idea of postracism masks continuing racialized social inequities.51 Later in her article, Wall develops this idea, backing off her initial optimism and pointing out that the public existence of Sasha and Malia, their celebrity status, is not enough: it may lead to proposed Sasha and Malia

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(1975–1984), pictured as a teen in an inset photo;63 Brandy (Norwood) of Moesha (1996–2001);64 Neve Campbell, Lacey Chabert, and Jennifer Love Hewitt of Party of Five (1994–2000);65 Kate Winslet in Titanic (1997);66 Olivia Newton-John in Grease (1978);67 “Brat Pack” members Ally Sheedy and Molly Ringwald in images of them as teens in the 1980s;68 singer LeAnn Rimes;69 Dana Plato (again);70 the Brady Bunch girls (again);71 Britney Spears;72 girls from Square Pegs (1982–1983), Fame (1982–1987), and The Facts of Life (1979–1988) in a “Where Are They Now?” cover;73 Tatum O’Neal, with an inset picture of her in Paper Moon (1973);74 Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen;75 Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen (again);76 Mary-Kate Olsen (again);77 Lindsay Lohan;78 Lindsay Lohan (again);79 Lindsay Lohan (again);80 Miley Cyrus;81 Dakota Fanning and Hilary Duff as two of the “World’s Richest Teens”;82 Vanessa Hudgens, Ashley Tisdale, and Monique Coleman (along with the boys) from High School Musical 2 (2007);83 Vanessa Hudgens (again) with her costar Zac Efron;84 Miley Cyrus (again);85 Miley Cyrus (again);86 the cast of High School Musical 3 (2008) (again);87 Brenda Song of Suite Life on Deck (2008–2011);88 Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato;89 the cast of Saved by the Bell (1989–1993), pictured as teens in an inset photo;90 Miranda Cosgrove from Nickelodeon’s iCarly (2007–2012);91 Kristen Stewart of Twilight;92 Kristen Stewart (again);93 Jennifer Lawrence of The Hunger Games;94 and Jennifer Lawrence (again).95 The most common type of cover in this group features beautiful pictures of smiling teen celebrities. By and large, these are happy, adorable, well-adjusted girls. The covers explore the fact and pleasure of teen stardom (the Brat Pack cover, Brandy, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, Lindsay Lohan, Brenda Song, Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato, and Miranda Cosgrove), including the more specific topic of “Raising a Teen Star (the Right Way)!” (Miley Cyrus, featured with her dad).96 Sometimes the actors appear with their costars, often in ways that conjure images of fun on- and off-screen (Party of Five cast) and/or hint at real-life romance (Shannen Doherty with Beverly Hills, 90210 boys, Vanessa Hudgens with Zac Efron, and Kristin Stewart with the Twilight boys). While pleasure and happiness are certainly dominant, sometimes the covers link the stars to personal challenges, such as the decision to have breast-reduction surgery (Soleil Moon Frye), becoming suddenly rich or being one of the “World’s Richest Kids” (LeAnn Rimes and Miley

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identity. Thus the covers’ depiction of the two most prominent of these stars of color—Hudgens and Gomez—contributes to what Angharad Valdivia calls the “fourth stage” of racial representation, one of ambiguity and hybridity. She writes, “With an ambiguously brown image an advertiser [or magazine cover] can potentially appeal to a broad range of ethnicities ranging from white to Latina, Native American, Asian American, Indian, Middle Eastern, and even black if the signifiers are ambiguous enough.”106 In other words, these girls’ racialization is a marketing tool, but not a topic of discussion. As these Time, Newsweek, and People covers would have it, there simply are no significant African American or other explicitly racialized teen celebrities in U.S. media culture girlhood (the five covers including small pictures of relatively unknown and/or ensemble cast girls of color notwithstanding). As I illustrate in the book’s introduction, these girl celebrities of color certainly exist; yet, during these twenty-two and a half years, high-profile teen celebrities of color such as Raven-Symoné, America Ferrera, Keke Palmer, and Rihanna, for example, did not appear on the covers. From a perspective invested in examining alternative girlhoods, then, my first argument must be a critique of the systematic elimination of girl celebrities of color from the landscape of the magazine covers at the grocery checkout or newsstand, even though they appear time and again in other mediated spaces. In other words, girls of color are not just absent from these covers, but—given their visibility elsewhere—they are neglected, displaced, and denied. That said, I want to take the opportunity offered by Hudgens’s and Gomez’s appearance on these covers to look inside the magazines at the articles about these two celebrities of color to understand how they, in particular, are positioned in relation to girlhood, to ask whether the articles make their racialization explicit or implicit, and to explore the possibility of imagining alternatives to whiteness through these two girl celebrities. The issue on Selena Gomez centers her lifelong friendship with Demi Lovato. We learn that they met while auditioning for Barney and Friends (1992–present), appeared together on the show, were homeschooled together, identify strongly as Texans, and stay in touch via Twitter. The issue emphasizes their similarity: calling them “two seven-year-old brunettes” when they met,107 and featuring them in a

Figure 2.2. Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato as BFFs on the cover of People, July 22, 2009.

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two-page photo in which they lie on their backs with their hair flowing together and with the title “Two of a Kind!” When they worked together on the 2009 made-for-TV-movie Princess Protection Program, “It honestly didn’t feel like work. It was fun to make.”108 They are BFFs and “just really connected.”109 Interview questions also pursue Gomez’s relatively tame love life: her on-screen kiss with Dylan Sprouse when she was twelve years old, her crush on Shia LaBeouf, and her friendship with Taylor Lautner. The many photos depict Gomez as glamorous but also playful; she is often affectionately touching fellow cast members in the photos, and whenever Gomez and Lovato appear together they are touching (or, in a few cases, hitting each other with pillows in a typical tween girl sleepover pillow-fight scene). Gomez seems to be an ideal/ typical friend, lavishing affection on everyone with whom she works/ plays and staying true to her BFF: she is the kind of girl anyone would want to be around. Nowhere does the issue address how Gomez selfidentifies racially, or how she feels about portraying a Latina in Wizards of Waverly Place, or what it means to her to be mixed. Instead, the emotional and physical link between Gomez and Lovato—whose entwined hair and lifelong friendship makes them appear almost as one—contributes to an ambiguous racial hybridity for both of them, a hybridity that is part of their appeal, their uniqueness, and, in fact, their spectacularization, but that does not seem to make any real difference in their lives or work. One of the two Hudgens High School Musical 2 covers features her with Zac Efron, her on-screen and (at the time) off-screen boyfriend, and offers even less access to an explicitly nonwhite racialization. Both on the cover and in the article and photos inside, Hudgens and Efron are portrayed as fun teens, loving and affectionate but not especially sexualized (only one small photo shows them actually kissing romantically), with nothing scandalous about them at all.110 Almost all the photos show the couple together in fun poses: at the beach, drinking a frozen coffee drink, on a swing, and simultaneously kissing an Emmy statue won by High School Musical. Establishing the romantic but not sexual nature of their relationship and maintaining their success stories—and Hudgens’s status as a can-do girl—the article claims, “Like teen celebrities from a gentler era, Efron and Hudgens get spotted out buying Pinkberry frozen yogurt, not stumbling out of nightclubs.” And:

Figure 2.3. Vanessa Hudgens with Zac Efron during the height of High School Musical success, September 3, 2007.

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“At heart, the biggest teen stars on the planet remain two low-key kids who were raised by middle-class parents and like to do pretty much the same things they did before they were stars.” Like Gomez, Hudgens is glamorous (she has “three closets devoted entirely to shoes”), but she is also just a normal kid. The article reports that she wants to go to college (as does Efron) and declares, “Though fame is ‘exciting,’ says Hudgens, ‘it’s hard to keep a personal life. I am a teenager. Part of me just wants to be normal.’” The only oblique reference to her specific racialization is a claim that she “dreams of playing Maria in West Side Story.”111 Otherwise, she is just an everyday girl dealing in as squeaky-clean a way as possible with mega stardom. Overall, then, the articles’ representation of these two stars of color downplays their distinctly racialized identities. While the articles do ever so slightly acknowledge Gomez’s and Hudgens’s raciality—Gomez is a “brunette” and Hudgens wants to play “Maria”—they do so only in a way that activates “ambiguous hybridity” and without addressing any specific racialization. Through these stars, then, girlhood is no longer white, but as with Sasha and Malia Obama, that change does not transform the can-do category beyond a—slight—darkening. Griffin argues that “racial difference is an event communicated wherever the signs of blackness are deployed in the name of capital,” and he uses that claim to read a black girl epistemology in That’s So Raven.112 Similarly, here, I want Selena Gomez’s and Vanessa Hudgens’s mixed identity and racial difference to matter, just as I want racial difference to matter in relation to Sasha and Malia. It matters to me when I look at these covers; and it is there—present—not only for me, but also for anyone interested in questions of racial identity and representation. But, I must admit, racial difference does not matter in the context of the covers and the cover stories. In fact, like the magazines’ exclusion of other high-profile celebrities of color, the particular way People represents Gomez and Hudgens could be said to deny rather than to acknowledge racial difference. Nevertheless, there it is, smiling out at passersby and subtly (and only ever so slightly) refiguring the image of the can-do teen celebrity girl. In short, like Sasha and Malia, Gomez and Hudgens simultaneously challenge the whiteness of the can-do girl and contribute to a postracial discourse that makes racial difference (only) a commodity.

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celebratory covers: Newsweek declares Capriati “The 8th Grade Wonder” and shows her smiling broadly at the camera while holding and playing with a small dog.122 And, as I discuss above, Time calls Zmeskal “Gym Dandy.” Like Hughes, on this cover Zmeskal makes an impossible jump, outside any real space and with no physical place to land. And, again, red, white, and blue dominate the image, including Zmeskal’s blue leotard. In short, these athletes are in a perpetual state of overwhelming nationalist achievement; indeed, achievement literally unachievable by anyone (e.g., leaping over a mountain), even the world-class athletes they are. The two covers that are more concerned than celebratory nevertheless continue to produce affection for the girl athletes while also asking whether “we push teen athletes too hard?” (Zmeskal)123 and “what went wrong?” (Capriati).124 Both questions suggest a protectionist stance toward these formerly simply beloved athletes; and People follows up with a subtitle about Capriati declaring “At 13, she was a bubbly kid with a booming forehand. At 18, she’s burned out, partying hard, and facing a drug charge. Is this payback for a stolen childhood?” Two images appear on the cover, a large image of Capriati at age thirteen, on a tennis court in action and smiling, and a smaller inset image of her mug shot from her arrest for marijuana possession. The two Capriati images on one cover—the large happy image and the small distraught image— make clear that the covers are not giving up on affection for these girl wonders. In fact, the concern for the girls grows out of and depends on that affection. In other words, without the pre-existing affection, there would be no current concern or attention. Overall, these athletes are the nation’s darlings, loved and—when necessary—protected. Turning to an analysis of the athletes of color, neither the Michelle Kwan covers nor the Venus and Serena Williams cover fits completely within these nationalist, celebratory, and/or protectionist modes. For example, Kwan’s People cover does not use red, white, and blue at all. Kwan’s Newsweek cover is red, white, and blue, but white dominates both the background and Kwan’s skating dress. This color scheme, along with the headline “Soul on Ice,” associates her, perhaps, more with figure skating ice than with the nation. Further, unlike Zmeskal and Hughes, Kwan is not in motion in this image. Rather, she poses in a vague figure skating position and smiles for the camera. Her long hair is loose

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primary headline. Yet it is the Williamses who are held responsible for men’s displacement. Inside the magazine a third interpretation of “the world” emerges. There, we learn that none of the other players on the tour likes Venus and Serena because they are supposedly “arrogant,” “aloof,” and “rarely compliment or congratulate an opponent.”130 Thus

Figure 2.4. Venus and Serena Williams battle the world on the cover of Time, September 3, 2001.

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responsible for their own poverty. On the other hand, the fact that as teen girl professional athletes Venus and Serena were able to make the very unusual move to value both education and sport challenges the tennis status quo. Venus and Serena are smart girls, but they are not simply “can-do.” They do things differently. In other words, because they are more than just athletes who either succeed (most others) or fail (Zmeskal, Capriati) spectacularly, Venus and Serena escape the can-do/ at-risk dichotomy. Hence Venus and Serena Williams, and Kwan to a certain extent, rewrite what it means to be a cover girl in ways that challenge both unquestioned nationalism and the adoration/protectionist stance of the majority of the magazine covers. Girls in Peril Seemingly in direct opposition to the primarily happy and successful daughters of politicians, teen celebrities, and sport stars, girls often also appear on the covers as vulnerable and threatened: either dead as a result of a tragedy, kidnapped and still lost, or kidnapped and rescued. Some of these girls remain nameless and/or function as a symbol of tragedy in relation to other topics, such as teen violence,136 conflict in the Middle East,137 and TWA Flight 800.138 The covers I focus on in this section, however, depict the girls not only as vulnerable but also as celebrities themselves, famous at least for a brief time because of something horrific that has happened to them. These are the at-risk spectacular girls who counterbalance the can-do teen celebrities and sports stars. All three of the magazines contribute to this category, although People provides by far the most examples. For instance, within the space of seven weeks, People featured three covers about Jaycee Dugard and Elizabeth Smart, two blonde-white girls who had been kidnapped (separately) but eventually rescued. In August 2009, twenty-nine-year-old Dugard, who had been kidnapped when she was eleven years old, was rescued, along with her two daughters born while she was held captive. People ran two cover stories seven weeks apart, both featuring pictures of Dugard as a child.139 In the interim, it ran a story on Smart, who had been kidnapped in 2002 and rescued in 2003, but was now giving testimony in the competency trial of the man who kidnapped her.140 People

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these girls; she appeared on five People154 and two Newsweek155 covers.156 Caylee Anthony is a more recent example; she appeared on five People covers between 2008 and 2011, all of which included images of her mother who was arrested and then tried for her murder.157 In addition, the following dead white girls appeared on the covers of these magazines: Jessica Steinberg, who died as a result of child abuse;158 Adrianne Jones, who was killed by two other teens;159 and Phoebe Prince, who committed suicide as a result of bullying by “mean girls.”160 Only two girls who died as a result of something other than kidnapping stand out as distinct in this category. First, in 1995 Time ran a story on the only dead girl of color to appear on these covers: Cuban American/African American Elisa Izquierdo, who had been murdered by her mother (who was known to have been abusing her).161 Second, only one girl to appear on these covers died because of her own actions rather than others’ abuse: Jessica Dubroff, a sevenyear-old pilot who died while trying to fly a plane across the country (in the company of her father and flight instructor). When the plane crashed as a result of bad weather in April 1996, both Time162 and People163 ran cover stories. As with the teen celebrities, the thirty-five covers and twenty dead and/or kidnapped girls make close examination of each cover impossible in the space of one chapter, but I do want to mention several themes that emerge. First, as my descriptions above suggest, the girls are overwhelmingly not just white, but blonde-white. Their whiteness is definitive.164 Only the two teens who fought back and avoided kidnapping (Jacqueline Marris and Tamara Brooks), one of the two girls kidnapped in Oregon, the two Shah girls, Jessica Steinberg, Elisa Izquierdo, Caylee Anthony, Polly Klaas, Phoebe Prince, and Jessica Dubroff are not blonde and/or blue-eyed; and, of those, only Tamara Brooks, Jacqueline Marris, the two Shah girls, and Elisa Izquierdo are not white. Second, the girls are primarily under the age of ten, profoundly innocent and vulnerable. Only eight are teenagers. Third, all but one of the girls faced assault; hence, they had no part in causing their own trauma. Only Jessica Dubroff died as a result (at least in part) of her own decisions and actions. Finally, almost all the girls are smiling in happy snapshots obviously taken before the abduction or death, or in posed photos taken after rescue (e.g., Elizabeth Smart).

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only shows her not smiling, but also is out of focus. While the many other cover girls lost or murdered smile out at the viewer—producing pathos—this cover produces a potentially un-crossable experiential rift between the viewer and the girl. She is not available to us; she is lost to the system and her mother’s (supposed) pathology: she is out of focus. As Rebecca Wanzo argues in relation to the representation of African American children, rather than functioning as an individual for whom we feel sympathy, Izquierdo becomes “aligned with [a] universal idea,”168 here the need to fix the broken CWA system. We are not meant to be moved by the death of this girl of color as an individual.169 Despite the boundary between the viewer and Izquierdo, if we read the article inside the magazine we at least learn a bit about her life; yet the Time story on Bipin Shah is not at all about his missing daughters. While the cover features their faces in close-up as a backdrop behind their father, the article inside reports first on Shah’s search for them as well as his failed marriage and struggles with their mother, Ellen Devers; and then on Faye Yager’s organization, Children of the Underground, which helped Devers take and hide the girls. There are no details in the story about the girls’ lives, except through the lens of their parents. The article does end, however, with a focus on the girls, holding Shah, Devers, and Yager responsible for their victimization: “Everyone in this story is a little deluded. And the saddest part—the part Bipin and Ellen and, yes, Faye all have to answer for—is that the victims of those delusions, somewhere on the run with their mother, are those two little girls who never asked for any of this.”170 Despite this pathos-producing ending, however, the cover is much like the Izquierdo cover: slightly out of focus and, in this case, with the image of the father blocking a significant portion of the girls’ faces. Again, these girls of color are less available to the viewer: lost, yes; victimized, yes; but not achingly present with bright eyes and smiling faces, as are most of the other (white or blonde-white) dead and/or lost girls on the covers of these magazines. Elisa Izquierdo and Sarah Lynn and Genevieve Marie Shah are all children, hence innocent and without agency. Their racialization— caught in the system of poverty, or caught between their Indian American father and white American mother whose marital difficulties are coded as cultural as much as, if not more than, personal—depicts

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Figure 2.6. Jessica Dubroff, aviator, on the cover of Time, April 22, 1996.

self-directed child: “Reid [her flight instructor] quickly bonded with Jessica, his youngest pupil ever. ‘They both loved flying and they had a love of life and people,’ says Auld [part owner with Reid of the plane]. ‘It was amazing when you watched them together. Joe was always happy and smiles.’ Though Joshua [Jessica’s brother] dropped out, ‘Jessica

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Michelle Kwan is American, but not quite as much as the other athletes; she is beautiful, but does not seem to have an athletic super body; and Elisa Izquierdo, Sarah Lynn, and Genevieve Marie Shah are sadly lost, but still out of focus, not quite as urgently of concern as are the white kidnapped/lost girls such as Elizabeth Smart and JonBenét Ramsey. I simply cannot find a way to recuperate the depictions of these girls for a feminist reading, or even for a reading simply in pursuit of variation in U.S. girlhood. Two other alternative girlhoods do seem to offer a potential interruption, however: (1) the racialized, super can-do girl (Sasha and Malia Obama, Vanessa Hudgens, and Selena Gomez), and, more powerfully, (2) a (usually) racialized girl with agency who confronts and refuses the standard anxious adoration set up by the larger field of girlhood in U.S. media culture (Venus and Serena Williams, Tamara Brooks and Jacqueline Marris, and Jessica Dubroff). Both these types of girls are potentially awe-inspiring. While Sasha and Malia function as an impossible ideal, a symbol of bootstrapping determination that no one could ever actually achieve, they nevertheless displace whiteness at the center of the ubiquitous can-do girlhood. They are present. And while depictions of Selena Gomez and Vanessa Hudgens either completely mask their racial identities or transform them into vague markers of ambiguous ethnicity, their status as girl celebrities of color who actually make it to the covers of these magazines potentially opens up reflection on mixed identities and provides a potential point of identification for mixed audiences. Again, they are available as girl celebrities of color, even if they are only a small fraction of the many potential girl celebrities of color who could have appeared on these covers during these two decades. The active and arguably confrontational girlhoods offered by Venus and Serena Williams, Tamara Brooks and Jacqueline Marris, and Jessica Dubroff read as the most alternative to me. While, as I discuss above, many aspects of the covers and the inside stories contradict this reading, it is possible to see Venus and Serena as defeating the world, Brooks and Marris as thwarting a kidnapper, and Dubroff—a girl who flies—as determinedly entering a world that is simultaneously one of the remaining areas of masculine dominance in U.S. culture and functions as a potent symbol of feminism and queerness. This chapter, then,

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Chart 3.1. The Eleven Most Discussed Girl Films, 2000–2009

Film title

LexisNexis news rank

LexisNexis TV and radio transcripts rank

Alternative press indexes rank

Precious (2009)

1

1

1

Juno (2007)

3

3

2

Mean Girls (2004)

5

2

Little Miss Sunshine (2006) Twilight (2008)

4 2

Akeelah and the Bee (2006) Hairspray (2007)

3 4

The Secret Life of Bees (2008)

4

Lilo and Stitch (2002)

5

Whale Rider (2002) Coraline (2009)

6

5 6

of the substantial public discussion, I set the criterion of a film appearing in the top 5–6 of at least two of the three categories. With this in place, I ended up with four films that come close to spanning the decade: Mean Girls (2004), Little Miss Sunshine (2006), Juno (2007), and Precious (2009). Thus, this chapter discusses these four films, offers close analyses of the public discussion of them—not only in the three sets of indexes I used to build the list but also in all the relevant indexes available to me—and considers the relationships among all this material. I organize the analysis that follows in three main sections. I start with a discussion of the public conversation surrounding the films, identifying one dominant theme across all four films—the simultaneous adoration and denigration of girls—a theme that is rampant not only in coverage of these films but also in most of the representations of girls I address throughout the book. Here, adoration of these films, their girl characters, and their girl stars depends on the denigration of

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way produces a critique of heteronormativity—as well as the presence of girls’ autoeroticism, girls’ choice and agency, and the specificity of an African American girlhood—in and through these films. Thus, in the last section I take my lead from the public discussion, but I focus on my own investment in alternative girls. Throughout, my methodology is to imagine as many different versions of girlhood as possible, while remaining both critical of the denigration of girls and open to—in fact, insisting on—finding queer, antiracist, feminist girls amid U.S. media culture.

Adoration and Denigration Commentators often place Mean Girls in the context of a teen girl film genre, including Heathers (1989)5 and Clueless (1995),6 as well as Lohan’s prior films: The Parent Trap (1998), Freaky Friday (2003), and Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (2004).7 Many reviews point out that most girl films from 2003–2004 did not do as well as had been hoped at the box office.8 In comparison, they say Mean Girls did unexpectedly well and suggest this is because “it is a much harder-edged film.”9 Mean Girls is unique in relation to those other films: Mean Girls is actually a good film, unlike girl films in general, which are implicitly bad. And not only are these other girl films bad, but also their girl audiences are abject. Sometimes commentators define girls as ignorant: “Mean Girls even contains some wisdom, although I hesitate to mention that lest I scare off its target audience.”10 Other girl fans are just silly: “At a recent opening-night screening of Mean Girls  .  .  . we [saw] an ocean of  .  .  . 13-year-olds in Apprentice-short skirts. A phalanx of about a dozen of these odd creatures sat directly in front of us and spent the 15 minutes before the movie playing musical chairs.”11 Thus, commentators’ praise of Mean Girls for offering a harder-edged girlhood depends on the denigration of both other girl films and their girl audiences. Regarding Little Miss Sunshine, within a family almost every review and commentary calls “dysfunctional,” Olive is the “one shining hope.”12 She is “a perpetually gushing fountain of optimism” and is “sweet,” “sensitive,”13 and “innocent.”14 Yet, despite their affection for Olive, commentators also read her obsession with beauty pageants as misguided, specifically because of her looks. Articles call her a “dumpling with oversized glasses”15 and describe her as “overweight,”16 “frumpy,”17

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of girlhood is built on simultaneous differentiation from and disdain for another. The following example from the New Pittsburgh Courier sums up this tension: “If you’ve heard any ‘buzz words’ about the character, ‘Precious,’ the words ‘overweight,’ ‘illiterate,’ and ‘victim’ have likely been part of your orientation. But to pigeonhole ‘Precious’ in this way is to deny her wit, humor, intelligence, and most importantly, her boldness to believe she deserves a more fruitful life than the damaging, dysfunctional circle of abuse at the hands of her parents.”32 Here, the illiterate and victim version of Precious is unlovable, but, because contrary to appearances she is actually witty and curious, we can—and should—love her. Second, the story of how director Lee Daniels cast Sidibe does similar work, differentiating between loveable Sidibe and the other abject women and girls who auditioned to play Precious but—counterintuitively—were just too much like the character to portray her successfully. Most commentaries mention that Precious weighs “300 pounds,”33 and some report that Daniels and his casting director looked for potential actors at “McDonald’s,” “RadioShack,” and a “popcorn counter”34 by approaching young African American women35 who, presumably, looked like they weighed three hundred pounds.36 When Daniels met Sidibe, however, he realized she was smart and happy, unlike Precious and the other women who had auditioned. As the story goes, he decided that if he were to hire someone too much like Precious he would be “exploiting” her and putting her in situations for which she was unprepared.37 About Sidibe, Daniels realized, “she would be able to be a mouthpiece for my film in a very articulate way.”38 Overall, Precious is inarticulate, abused, and fat, but that depiction is just a little bit easier to take because Sidibe, as an actor, has the capacity both to distinguish herself from Precious and to portray Precious in a compassionate and meaningful way. Thus the discourse simultaneously expresses love and hate for girls, love for wit (Sidibe, an exceptional black woman/girl) and hate for victimhood (the other normative black girls/women who auditioned). Third, sometimes the commentary produces a split between Sidibe and Precious. Here, commentators seem to feel free to express disgust for Precious because they are expressing love for Sidibe. In these examples, Precious becomes only her overweight victim self, while

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about health. Showbiz Tonight, in fact, carried the story for at least five days,55 and it arose again on CNN on Issues with Jane Velez-Mitchell on March 24, 2010.56 In each case, commentators cover the same ground and simultaneously give Stern and his comments more airtime. Thus the earlier tone of relief at being able to gaze at and love a large young black woman turns into concern for her, a concern that depends on both (1) repeatedly (re)playing vitriolic racist and sexist comments and (2) making unsupported assumptions that her size necessarily means she is unhealthy and that if she were smaller she somehow would not be typecast, even as a dark-skinned African American woman. The Trouble with the Girl Star (Breslin and Lohan) The simultaneous affection for and rejection of girls in the coverage of these four films functions as a moral panic about girls. Because both ideal and problematic versions of girlhood run throughout the coverage, panic about the potential loss of the more unusual ideal girlhood leads to protectionist discourse. This emerges most strongly in relation to the two actual girl stars among these four films: Breslin and Lohan. Specifically, in the discussion of both Little Miss Sunshine and Mean Girls, there is some concern about the idea of the girl-on-display and the potential threat of stardom to Breslin and Lohan’s previously unsullied girlhood. Here, the coverage adores the girl star—as long as she is young and pre-sexual—but film itself threatens her hold on her status as innocent and adorable. Commentators gush over Breslin as a girl star, claiming that she “is shaping up to be the next It Kid in American movies.”57 Other commentaries acknowledge the potential loss of innocence for the child actor that It Kid status represents, while nevertheless insisting strenuously on Breslin’s continuing unsullied innocence. For example, Entertainment Weekly quotes Breslin talking about her lack of understanding of some of the adult themes in the film: “A lot of times, people were laughing and I’m like ‘I don’t get it.’ Sometimes when there’s bad language in a movie, my mom covers my ears.”58 When Breslin receives the Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress, the inevitable comparison to Tatum O’Neal, Jodie Foster, and Anna Paquin as three other young Academy Award nominees emerge.59 In comparisons to O’Neal,

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innocent child star to sexualized teen star. The category “teen star,” which Lohan comes to embody in Mean Girls, then, contains a tension between innocent child and sexualized adult. In fact, I would argue the teen star makes explicit the fact that all girl stars embody the sexualized scandal at the heart of the star (as I argue in chapter 1), because the teen star who has entered puberty/adolescence but who is not yet adult brings together child and sexuality: a cause for panic. For the commentary on Breslin, the tension is split between Breslin (who still remains unsullied) and other stars (who do not). Coverage of Lohan surrounding the release of Mean Girls, however, depicts teen star Lohan as embodying that tension. The August 19, 2004, issue of Rolling Stone, which features Lohan on the cover, embraces her new behavior as “real,” calling her a “bad girl” and celebrating her because “she has been willing to talk shit about rival teen star Hilary Duff and didn’t hide the fact that she liked to party.”65 While Rolling Stone is appreciative of this “new, adult image,” it also claims that it “has her handlers worried.” This article also spends some time discussing her father’s troubles and questions her sincerity for being “relentlessly positive” about not “doing drugs.” By October, approximately four months after the film’s release, the dominant context in which commentary references Mean Girls is titillating anxiety. CNN’s Live From  .  .  . reports that Lohan was hospitalized during the shooting of Herbie: Fully Loaded (2005).66 In December, NBC’s Today Show reports on Lohan’s family troubles,67 as does ABC’s Primetime Live in February 2005.68 In May 2005, Lohan is in the news again for having lost a large amount of weight, with many speculating that she has an eating disorder.69 Some commentators simply say she is no longer beautiful, because she lost too much weight and died her hair.70 Paula Zahn says, “I barely recognized her in that photo,” and wonders, “Where did all those freckles go?” implicitly mourning the loss of Lohan’s childish innocence. This same show, in fact, summarizes Lohan’s troubles since the release of Mean Girls, mentioning all the issues together: rumored breast augmentation, partying, her father, an eating disorder, a public breakup with her boyfriend, and hospitalization while filming Herbie: Fully Loaded.71 In short, coverage of both Breslin and Lohan emphasizes anxiety about the girl star, although much more explicitly in relation to Lohan

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These Films Are Good for Us! Mean Girls, Juno, and Precious For many commentators, the exceptionalism of these films comes from their ability to transform audiences, and in the case of Mean Girls and Juno, girl audiences in particular.72 For example, for Katie Couric, Lohan stars in movies Couric feels comfortable watching over and over again with her own daughters. She ends her Today Show interview with Lohan by saying “I know a lot of girls are very upset they are in school right now and aren’t able to watch this interview. So I hope that they TiVo-ed it or have their VCRs set.”73 Other commentators call Lohan “an empowering mascot for young girls.”74 This perspective on the film continues for years after its first run (despite Lohan’s ongoing personal troubles), with many articles on “mean girls” or “cliques” continuing to mention both Mean Girls and Queen Bees and Wannabes (Roselind Wiseman’s moral panic book on which the film is based) as useful resources, at least in passing, as late as December 2007. For example, Girls’ Life says: “Being bullied by the popular crowd? Sounds like a Mean Girls rental is in order.”75 Another article reports on a film festival organized by a leadership program for girls, “Girls for Change,” and mentions that Mean Girls will be screened.76 Thus, not only when it was released but also for many years after, Mean Girls is understood to provide useful pedagogical material to help girls understand their lives. It can function as a self-help film.77 Coverage of Juno also often assumes it is good for girls, in this case because it acknowledges their fantasies and pleasures and offers them an alternative girl hero. Drawing on the pervasive adoration/denigration discourse, the San Francisco Chronicle quotes Page as follows: “I really hope that [Juno] just broadens the horizons for what a young woman is allowed to be. . . . We’re so used to popular media putting so much pressure on young individuals to be a certain way. . . . But it’s so nice that a film can come out that has a sense of honesty and looks at some other possibilities.”78 And Page isn’t the only one making this argument. For example, Entertainment Weekly claims, “After years of being served mostly bland good girls and ciphers—from Molly Ringwald in the ’80s to Lindsay Lohan in the ’00s—teenage girls are clearly starving for a female antihero.”79 Importantly, this girl hero is powerful because

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film. For example, on Good Morning America Sidibe says, “It seems to be helping people. So many people approach me and tell me that it’s changed their lives. And it makes them feel less alone in the world. And so like that, that’s so much more than an award.”86 In short, Precious has the power to change lives.

But Is the Feminism in These Films Good for Us? Juno and Precious While commentators are generally in agreement that these films are good for us, some explicitly ask whether the films offer a version of feminism that is good for us. More specifically, they debate the value in the ways Juno and Precious represent feminist issues such as abortion, child abuse, and racial stereotypes. Hence, feminism—or at least questions relevant to or about feminism—is part of these particular girlhoods and part of what is assumed to be good for girls in the audience. Most of the debate about Juno’s feminism addresses its representation of unplanned pregnancy and abortion, asking “Is this a feminist representation of abortion or not?” Some commentators appreciate that Juno seriously considers abortion as an option, going so far as to visit an abortion clinic. In People, Curly Cohen writes, “Just under the cute tenderness of Juno, we’re watching a movie about a woman’s right to decide, even if she’s sixteen, and the right to trust our children and the decisions they make.”87 Many critics, however, are not persuaded that the film is feminist. For example, Lisa Schwarzbaum, in an otherwise generally positive Entertainment Weekly review, says, “The old-school feminist in me wishes Juno spent more time, even a tart sentence or two, acknowledging that the options taken for granted by this one attractive, articulate teen are in fact hard-won, precious rights, and need to be guarded by a new-generation army of Junos and Bleekers.”88 Explicitly setting up a debate about the film, the feminist newspaper off our backs hosts a forum asking “Juno: Feminist or Not?” In the forum, commentators praise the film for giving Juno “agency,” and point out that “she decided to have sex” but “didn’t have a ‘natural’ maternal instinct for her baby.” Yet they also critique the film for depicting the abortion clinic receptionist as “unfriendly” and for “the plot’s pronatalist message.” Perhaps the most optimistic commentator says:

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Juno brings feminism and abortion to the forefront and into the mainstream, defining a feminist version of girlhood that considers abortion to be a legitimate choice. While Precious is also pregnant, abortion never comes up in either the film or the coverage. Arguably, stereotypes of African American teen moms make an abortion narrative unlikely (if not impossible). In other words, together the coverage of these two films defines abortion as a white girl’s option and teen motherhood as an African American girl’s burden but also right. Thus, while teen motherhood is a feminist issue raised by Precious, the public discussion does not address it except in passing. The coverage of Precious does, however, address another feminist issue: domestic violence. For example, some reviews address the feminist concept of a “cycle of abuse” and understand Precious to have made a huge change by leaving her “toxically cruel”93 mother’s home. On PBS’s Fresh Air, Daniels tells host Terry Gross that “the genius of Precious is that . . . the cycle is broken. When she walks out of there with her kids, you know from the way she says to her mother, ‘I never want to see you again.’”94 For Mo’Nique, who thought of her brother (who she reports abused her for several years) in order to portray Precious’s mother, the film makes an intervention by reaching out to abusers. A Washington Post article quotes her as saying “This story’s going to save somebody’s life. It’ll save the life of the person who is the molester, and it will save the life of the person being molested. It’s going to do so much.”95 Most of this discussion is not race-specific, but at least one article in the African American newspaper the Washington Informer uses Precious as an opportunity to talk about “sexual abuse of children” as “one of Black America’s most troubling secrets,” and it provides relevant statistics.96 While the bulk of the public commentary lauds the film for the role it can play in drawing attention to and even preventing domestic and sexual violence, some commentary critiques the film for reinforcing racial stereotypes.97 Further, as with Juno, discussion of the fact that there is a “debate” amplifies and reinforces the question of whether the film trades in stereotypes.98 For example, on November 1, 2009, even before the film was in wide release, Katie Couric reports that “some critics have charged that Precious does precious little to challenge stereotypes.”99 And, on November 21, 2009, the week the film opened nationwide,

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to emphasize this point. Rather than simply describe and challenge the depictions of girls in the coverage as I do in the previous two sections, I take the focus of the coverage back to the films, seeking additional ways to understand the films’ girls. For each film, I first analyze a key focus of the public discussion: for Mean Girls, the meaning of “mean girl”; for Little Miss Sunshine, the child beauty pageant; for Juno, the question of choice; and for Precious, a tension between universal humanity and the particularity of black girlhood. I then place these issues in relation to specific aspects of the films themselves—I “defamiliarize [their] everydayness”102—arguing for a reinterpretation of the relationships between girls and meanness, autoeroticism, choice, and universality, respectively. Mean Girls Are Queer In an essay on the concept of “mean girls,” Marina Gonick argues that at the beginning of the twenty-first century the “mean girl” is “a cultural symbol of disorder, moral decay, and social instability.  .  .  . Yet at the same time, the treatment and resolution of the [mean girl] problem is almost always articulated in individualized and individualizing terms,” rather than in social ones.103 The commentary on the film Mean Girls illustrates Gonick’s argument perfectly. It defines the mean girl as a “real” and unavoidable problem in society—girls by definition are going to be mean—and then imagines how individual girls can nevertheless escape meanness. The reported response of girl audiences proves just how mean girls can be: “The minute the film was over, the mean tween behind me rang up her friend on her cell phone and under the guise of ‘sharing,’ purposefully gave away the film’s big surprise ending.”104 Yet individual girls can avoid becoming mean. In fact, Lohan, as the film’s star, is adored in part because, despite her character Cady’s moments of weakness, Lohan is not actually mean at all. For example, when Today Show host Matt Lauer says, “Up next, actress Lindsay Lohan tells us about being a mean girl” as a hook before a commercial break, he then follows the comment with “She doesn’t look that mean. But, first, these messages.”105 Thus he uses the sensationalism of the “mean girl” concept, while also promising that Lohan will not be mean to us (or, presumably, he hopes to him) if we stick around to watch the interview.

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Figure 3.1. Cady with her queer-positive friends, Janis and Damien. Courtesy of Photofest.

is reaffirmed, but it plays a very different role than it does throughout the rest of the film. Here, heterosexuality is linked to racial consciousness in a way that evokes Kimberly Springer’s use of queer theory to argue that to affirm black female heterosexuality as neither excessively to-be-looked-at nor as an aspect of one’s life that must be set aside in the interest of decorum, is to queer heterosexuality, to insist on a black female sexual subjectivity.109 Admittedly, the romance between Janis and Kevin is fleeting and played for laughs because of Kevin’s overthe-top racial stridency; and, as Tanya Ann Kennedy argues, the film engages a “National Geographic subtext” through its “juxtaposition of girl nature with the jungle cats of stereotypically imagined Africa.”110 Certainly, I do not want to argue the film is overall an antiracist film. Nevertheless, by drawing on Springer’s theory of a queer racialized heterosexuality and focusing on Janis, I do want to argue that her racialized queerness remains available and is part of her heterosexuality. Through Janis, Mean Girls recuperates a heterosexuality unattached to meanness, significantly displacing that heterosexuality from whiteness and from the dominant narrative trajectory of the film in which Cady’s white femininity is recuperated.

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to conceal her age.”120 When we “hate” beauty pageants, it is supposed to be because they make girls sexually available in an inappropriate way to adult men on the visual level and therefore—based on a commonsense (but unsupported) assumption—potentially on the physical level as well. But what Brunson’s slip of the pen provocatively suggests is that the hatred, sometimes vitriolic, is often really for the girls themselves. Here, the implicitly feminist critique of beauty pageants for putting girls on display authorizes what is in fact a misogynous hatred of girls. And yet commentators harbor no hatred for Olive as beauty pageant contestant. In fact, ironically, none of the commentators I found was offended by Olive’s striptease dance routine, despite the fact that it explicitly represents the idea of “girl as sex worker” to which the makeup, hair, and costumes of the other girls only implicitly refer. As Myke Bartlett puts it, “There is nothing sexual to [Olive/Breslin’s] performance, only in the audience’s recognition of its connotations.”121 As a result, the artifice and constructed nature of the other pageant contestants’ feminine sexuality comes to the fore, making it suddenly not just undesirable but also repulsive. But what about the fact that Olive is, nevertheless, a child beauty pageant contestant? How do commentators deal with this aspect of the film, and how might a feminist media critic respond? Commentators interpret Olive as deeply invested in beauty contests, and this reading is certainly supported by the opening shot of Olive practicing a Miss America wave while watching the pageant on television, as well as by her visible and verbal excitement about getting a chance to participate in the Little Miss Sunshine contest. Yet reviews read beyond the depiction of her pleasure in performance and her excitement about participating, suggesting she is “besotted,”122 “pageantobsessed,”123 and “dying to win.”124 One review claims that the image of “Miss America accepting her tiara [that] flickers in [Olive’s] eyeglasses [in the film’s opening scene] . . . might as well be projected on her frontal lobe.”125 Not one commentary I found mentions one of the many ironies in the film: Olive had only just begun participating in beauty pageants when she was visiting her aunt. Admittedly, this information flies by in a brief telephone conversation between Olive’s mother and her sister, but it seems fair to imagine that Olive has participated in only one beauty contest prior to the Little Miss Sunshine event. Nevertheless, on the Today Show, for example, Matt Lauer describes Olive as having a

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move her body, to take erotic pleasure in her own body, and to take up space in the social world. Robinson and Davies read her performance at the pageant as a mark of “self-possession” and as “Olive’s ability to distance and detach herself from the audience’s negative affect.”128 And, if I reread from this perspective, the opening of the film, when Olive practices her wave while watching a videotape of Miss America, can be understood as pleasure not in traditional, hyper-sexualized femininity on display (as some of the commentary would have it), but rather in the process of performance itself. Similarly, from this perspective, when she goes on stage at the end to perform her dance routine, she shifts from the discomfort she has begun to feel with the entire pageant to her typical smile as she moves further into her erotic dance performance. It is not that I want to recuperate the girl beauty pageant as somehow feminist (although this argument can be made). Rather, I want to see if I can understand Little Miss Sunshine and Olive’s participation in the pageant to be offering a version of girlhood that is about the possibility of taking up social space—both in the family and beyond. For girls to inhabit and take pleasure in social space, I would argue, is feminist. Further, my reading of Olive as taking pleasure in public performance and the autoerotic feel of her own body in motion pushes past the implicitly feminist abhorrence of child beauty pageants in much of the commentary to a different feminism, one invested in the possibility of a sexual child, not as an object for consumption by an adult gaze but simply as a potential and possible version of her own childhood. Juno and a Plethora of Girls’ Choices A large portion of the commentary on Juno focuses specifically on the issue of teen pregnancy,129 and references to Juno in public discussion of teen pregnancy continue years after its release (e.g., in relation to MTV’s Teen Mom [2009–present]).130 Most of this discussion uses a critique of the film to help build a moral panic about a seemingly unprecedented escalation in teen pregnancy, despite statistics—available in the very same commentaries—that show the contrary. For example, some commentaries report December 2007 National Center for Health Statistics: Between 2005 and 2006 for girls between the ages of fifteen and nineteen, pregnancy was up 3 percent. Between 1991 and 2005, however,

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within public understandings of feminism. With the concepts of prochoice and choiceoisie, however, women are at least understood not only to make choices, but also to have a right to do so. In the discussion of Juno and teen pregnancy, girls have no such right and no such capacity. And so I turn to the film to ask it to produce a girlhood with choice, even if other scholars who have written on the film argue persuasively that Juno’s choices are “constrained.”137 First, most obviously, Juno considers an abortion, speaks the actual word “abortion,” and visits an abortion clinic. Gabrielle Hine argues persuasively that the film “frame[s] . . . every aspect of the abortion process as . . . hostile” and thereby naturalizes Juno’s choice not to have an abortion,138 but the film does take Juno through the process of choosing, rather than leaving abortion unspoken. Second, Juno chooses the adoptive parent(s)—not once, but twice. At the beginning of the film, her choice is quick and relatively unreflective: as many commentaries point out, she finds the adoptive parents in the Penny Saver. Yet a key narrative turn in the film is when Juno, Vanessa, and Mark all must confront the fact that Mark does not want to be a father, nor do Vanessa and Mark want to remain a couple. Vanessa and Mark choose to separate; Juno then (re)chooses Vanessa as the baby’s now-single mother. Late in the film, we see Juno write something (what turns out to be her

Figure 3.3. The moment at which Juno makes the decision to choose Vanessa as the baby’s mother, in Juno.

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that both are high-profile surprise indie hits about pregnant teenagers released within two years of each other. Of the hundreds of articles about both films I read, not a single one made a connection between Precious and Juno or other high-profile pregnant teens or teen moms.141 Certainly, race is at issue here. The figure of an African American pregnant teen often stands for “dependence on welfare,” the “irresponsibility of black men,” or the “hyper-sexuality” of black women and girls.142 Hence, Precious is a different kind of girl from other pregnant (white) girls. Further, Precious’s pregnancy is a result of child abuse and rape, not sexual agency as is the case for all these other girls (one wants to assume). If part of the anxiety about Juno and teen pregnancy is concern not only about pregnancy but also about girls’ sexual agency, Precious does not fit here either. If Precious does not get to participate in the new Hollywood trend of young pregnancy, and if she does not get at least implicitly to stand for girls’ sexual agency, then what does she get? In much of the coverage, Precious becomes a universal symbol first of suffering, and then of hope. For example, the filmmakers generally defend Precious against the charge of racial stereotyping by insisting that it tells a universal story and is not really about African Americans at all. In an interview published in the African American newspaper the Sacramento Observer, Sandra Varner asks the film’s director, Lee Daniels, “Is this story primarily about race or is it primarily about poverty and do [you] have any concern about how this story may stigmatize the Black community?” Daniels responds by denying that race matters to the film: “It’s a universal story. I am a Black filmmaker so the film is from a Black perspective and it happens to a Black girl, but this story is universal. I’ve been around the world with the film and I’m continually shocked and surprised at little women from Japan and Australia that are sixty and seventy and eighty years old feeling like they are Precious.”143 Of the four film girls in this chapter (Cady, Olive, Juno, and Precious), ironically, the coverage makes Precious—despite her relative uniqueness in the history of U.S. cinema as a poor African American girl at the very center of a film—the most universal, the best stand-in for the rest of us. But, importantly, “the rest of us” are generally not imagined as girls—in fact, in the coverage of Precious “we” are often sixty, seventy, or eighty years old. Thus the universal figure is not a girl,

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Thus, as a girl, and specifically as a poor African American girl, Precious faces abuse of power, but she also accesses fantasy and play. While, at the end of the film, as an HIV-positive teen mother on her own she certainly faces adult responsibilities and situations, throughout the film she also faces situations unique to girls: parents, school, and social workers who exercise and/or abuse power in ways that affect her life. And she engages the world as a girl, through fantasy and play. My goal, then, is to reclaim Precious from her status as “universal” victim who overcomes and instead to understand her specifically as a girl, navigating a girl’s life.

Conclusion Mean Girls, Little Miss Sunshine, Juno, and Precious are very different films, telling very different stories. Yet, across the four sizeable public discussions, several themes emerge that are typical of turnof-the-twenty-first-century U.S. media culture depictions of girls. First, the coverage both adores and denigrates girls: it claims all four of these film girls as unique and loveable, but only over-andagainst other generic unlovable girls who engage in mean behavior; enjoy empty, formulaic narratives; or are depressed, unhealthy, or sullen. Second, the coverage draws on and contributes to public anxiety about girls, in particular in relation to the threat of the crash-and-burn girl star, the supposed inevitability of girl meanness, and the supposed exponential growth in girls who make bad choices and end up pregnant. From this perspective, the massive cultural attention paid to these films is troubling in that a key version of “girl” it offers is abject, without agency, worthy only of disdain, and in need of disciplining. Alongside and running through these themes, however, is a crowd of other girls: mean girls, queer girls, girls of color and very young girls with healthy sexuality, feminist girls, pregnant girls, teen moms, girls who seriously consider abortion, girls who make choices and thereby drive the narrative of their own lives, sexually active girls, girls who speak back to power, poor girls, girls who face and survive abuse, girls who fantasize, girls who play, and girls who remain girls even though they are poor and black.

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because they were available as delightful objects on display, but also because they brought intrigue, particularly around issues of race and, as Collins’s comments foreground, sexuality. In terms of race, Venus was raised and coached by her father,8 Richard Williams, primarily outside of what Richard explicitly identified as the monied and predominantly white U.S. tennis world. And Kournikova (whom Collins often explicitly called “the Lolita”) looked and often acted like a model and had endorsements to match. In short, in 1997, teenage girls not only changed tennis but also contributed to public discussions about and media fascination with girls more generally, a fascination deeply invested in race and sexuality. While Venus, Hingis, Kournikova, and the 1997 intrigue surrounding them were enough to mark the new reign of teenage girls, the next year two additional teenage players emerged: Venus’s sister Serena Williams and Croatian Mirjana Lučić. At age sixteen, Serena played all four majors that year, ending the year ranked twentieth. Lučić turned sixteen in 1998, played three of the four majors, and ended the year ranked fifty-first. As early as the January 1998 Australian Open, television commentators were talking about “the five young ones,”9 the “young guns,”10 and the “teen queens,”11 claiming that interest in women’s tennis was way up: “The reason why [is] the young kids.”12 The 1998 press emphasized that all five already had major sponsorships, publishing articles with titles such as “The Dream Teens”13 and—emphasizing girl power by implicitly referencing the British pop group the Spice Girls—“Teens Spice of Women’s Tennis: New Flavor: Cocky and Coquettish, Upstarts Making Waves on, off Court.”14 These players, along with nineteen-yearold Swiss Patty Schnyder (who reached the quarterfinals of both the French Open and the U.S. Open and ended the year ranked eleventh) and French Amélie Mauresmo (who turned eighteen that year, played all four majors, and broke into the top one hundred), made up “the best crop of teenagers . . . ever.”15 In 1999, media continued to focus on the players’ youth, emphasizing rumor and intrigue. For example, in January nineteen-year-old Mauresmo confirmed the rumor that she was a lesbian and identified her then-partner, Sylvie Bourdon, when she came out to the French press after her semifinal win at the Australian Open. While former and current players were already out (most notably, Martina Navratilova),

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media themselves. Nevertheless, as David Andrews and Steven Jackson argue, the specificity of sports celebrity means that Venus is also a “real [individual] participating in unpredictable contexts.”20 By focusing on sports as my case study in this chapter, then, I emphasize this “unpredictability” both in terms of what might happen on court when athletes compete and in terms of the sports commentators’ and producers’ lack of experience covering an African American girl excelling at professional tennis. In order to explore the mediated negotiations that took place over this unpredictability, I focus on a particular type of media coverage: television match coverage that is live or what I call “near-live”—produced to seem live, only slightly time-delayed (and therefore not able to be significantly re-packaged or re-narrativized), and/or called/ recorded live but aired later. Of course, as my definition of “near-live” implies and as many scholars have shown, “liveness” itself is constructed as a key aspect of television sports media; it is a “conceptual filter” and a “discursive practice.”21 Thus, again, I do not argue that live television makes it possible for us to know what “actually” happened; rather, I seek to demonstrate that liveness makes especially visible the process by which media both produce Venus-as-challenging-girl and work to contain her and her unpredictability within pre-established narratives about racial assimilation and postracial celebration of abstract “difference.” In particular, I focus on two kinds of live/near-live coverage. First, I emphasize play-by-play coverage during which announcers had to react in the moment without the aid of pre-written scripts22 in order to discuss the racialized and gendered changes Venus was bringing to tennis and to public understandings of girlhood. In her comparison of live coverage to interviews with sportscasters about their goals during live coverage, Toni Bruce finds that “representations of natural black physicality continue to be reproduced in live sports television, despite a clear awareness among the commentators interviewed of what the stereotypes were and a stated desire to avoid their reinforcement.”23 Thus I focus on live/near-live play-by-play because, as Bruce shows, its unique qualities can make particularly visible the production of racialized girlhood. By highlighting moments at which announcers disagreed with each other, contradicted each other as well as other running narratives,

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Defining Venus as Black: Racialized Narratives and Resistant Openings One way to understand the coverage of Venus as a teen player is as part of a process of media and other players producing and then trying to come to terms with Venus’s (and Serena’s) ascribed difference. Most commentators and players are unwilling to say explicitly “they are black.”24 Instead, they allude to race but displace it by claiming that the Williamses behave differently, in particular that they separate themselves from everyone else. Thus a generic “difference” stands in for blackness. And because difference has to be from something, whiteness remains the unspoken norm for the teen tennis players. Additionally, because commentators generally hold Venus responsible for taking actions that are different, she herself seems to be the source of her difference and (implicit) racialization. Further, when commentators make their own recognition of difference a talking point, they seem to authorize sustained surveillance of Venus’s body and behavior, intensifying her difference. Collectively, by setting Venus apart, all this coverage reinforces implicit racialized systems of normalcy within both tennis and tennis broadcasting. Nevertheless, these regularities and systems are thrown into relief when Venus emerges as a top player and the television coverage has to find ways to depict her as not only part of but also central to tennis. Venus versus the Other Players During the 1997 U.S. Open, Venus broke through, making it to the finals, where she lost to Hingis. Throughout the tournament, announcers mention her age and marvel that she is going all the way to the finals. As Carillo puts it, “That’s just unprecedented. I mean, no kid has ever come into a major for the first time [unseeded] and gotten to the semis.” During the awards ceremony, Pat O’Brien says, “I feel like we’ve grown up with [Venus] here at the U.S. Open.” Yet, even as they emphasize her youth and repeatedly draw connections between her and the other teen players, they also emphasize her maturity. Commentators mention her “composure”25 and call her “mentally tough,”26 regardless of whether she is winning the match. For example, in an early round match at the 1997

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her “power,” “great athleticism,” and “hustle.” After one particularly strong point during the semifinal, Carillo says, “Williams continues to get herself out of trouble just from the sheer force of her physicality.” And Ted Robinson states, “Talk about wingspan. Venus Williams got to that like a great condor,” a reference Douglas also notices and critiques for the way it draws on a long tradition of associating African Americans (regardless of whether they are athletes) with animals.32 Commentators also sometimes link Venus’s physicality to masculine power. For example, at the 1997 U.S. Open when she jumps to hit a particularly high overhead winner, Carillo says she gets “the kind of airtime that Pete Sampras shows off with sometimes.” They often discuss the speed of her serves—usually in the range of 115–120 miles per hour, which rivals most men’s serves on the tour. For the press to remark on an athlete’s physicality is common, of course. However, a comparison to the specific ways commentators address Kournikova’s and Mauresmo’s physicality—both in relation to sexuality—makes clear the implicit racialization of Venus’s body as animallike, as a physical force beyond the ordinary, but also as “unfeminine”33 and asexual. Commentators call Kournikova a “blonde, rock star–type teenager”34 and a “pin-up queen.”35 And they often perpetuate her eroticization by reporting on how other media eroticize her, such as commenting on how photographers’ cameras are always and only trained on Kournikova during a match36 and reporting on the tabloids’ interest in her. During the 1997 Wimbledon, they claim the British tabloids call her “Baby Spice” while showing images of Kournikova in erotic poses (such as shots of her butt) or with her presumed boyfriend in those very tabloids. At the 1998 Australian Open, a shot of her bare legs pans up to reveal her on court playing, thus not only sexualizing her but also sexualizing her tennis. Tennis makes Kournikova sexy, and when Kournikova plays, tennis is sexy. For some fans, tennis also makes Mauresmo sexy; and when Mauresmo plays, tennis is sexy. But this is a queer sexiness that commentators work to deflect, even as they must acknowledge it once Mauresmo speaks openly about her sexuality. While commentators seem unable to bring themselves to use words such as “lesbian” or “homosexual” or to mention Mauresmo’s decision to come out, they manage to address her sexuality by talking at length about Davenport’s faux pas after the 1999

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the 1997 U.S. Open. During the 1997 U.S. Open final Carillo says, “She’s proven she can be a quick study.” And, when discussing the Williams family’s decision to keep Venus out of the junior tournaments, commentators often mention that (unlike most teen players) Venus used the time to finish high school and that, during 1997 at age seventeen and while playing professional tennis, she was taking two college classes.40 Hingis is also a smart girl. In fact, overwhelmingly coverage represents Hingis as intelligent, if not brilliant, even when she’s losing. For example, Evert says, “You can see it in her face, she’s trying to figure out ‘What can I do? What can I change in my game? Why am I losing?’”41 During Hingis’s semifinal match with Kournikova at the 1997 Wimbledon, Evert says, “Martina just anticipates shots so well. . . . She almost has like a third eye.” By the time she is making her way toward winning her third Australian Open in a row in 1999, Fred Stolle says she is “one of the best thinkers in women’s tennis.” In fact, Cliff Drysdale asks Mary Joe Fernández, “Is [Hingis] the most brilliant strategist that you have on the tour?” To which Fernández replies, “I definitely think so.” During the final, Drysdale goes so far as to call her the smartest player—man or woman: “I want Hingis on my chess team. She uses the court better than anybody in, I think, men’s or women’s tennis.” Sometimes when I mention to colleagues that I am writing about Venus, they say something like, “Oh, I remember how racist the coverage was. You must be arguing that she’s the ‘strong one’ while Hingis is the ‘smart one.’” To which I respond, “Sort of.” Above I illustrate, in fact, that commentators also sometimes define Venus as intelligent and do not entirely restrict her to physical strength and size. In other words, the commentary cannot be reduced to an anticipated stereotypical definition of “black athlete = body.” Yet, in comparison to the definition of Hingis as the smartest tennis player in the world—male or female—it becomes clear that the representation of Venus as smart only goes so far. Further, as I discuss in more detail below, Venus’s reported intelligence and investment in education contributes to a boot-strapping narrative that racializes her as an exceptional black girl, one who illustrates the possibility of assimilation and success, as long as she tries hard and values education. For commentators, Venus’s success comes not only from her maturity, physicality, and intelligence, but also from what they define as her

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the 1997 U.S. Open, Carillo says, “All these phenoms have attitudes. But it really seems like the players in the locker room get a kick out of how Martina Hingis goes after them and has a good time.” In short, in the coverage Venus is cocky, which leads to media interviewing other players regarding their dislike of her (something they are willing to discuss on-camera), while Hingis is cocky in a cute sort of way.46 Admittedly, at other times Carillo critiques Hingis for her attitude, reporting the same “toss[ing] a bead in the press conference” incident as inappropriate, and calling Hingis “haughty.”47 And at the 1997 Wimbledon, Evert says, “[Hingis] doesn’t show much respect for Steffi Graf. It really is too bad.” Further, by the beginning of 1998 at the Australian Open, commentators changed their approach to Venus, saying “[She and Serena have] sure turned things around here in Australia. They have been very friendly, very outgoing, very confident and cocky in a certain way, but in an endearing kind of way.”48 Thus two narratives operate in relation to the teen players’ confidence, one that defines it as inappropriate and unproven—as “cocky”—and the other that defines it as cute. While both narratives adhere to both Hingis and Venus, overall Hingis is much more often understood as cute, while Venus is much more often understood as inappropriate, particularly in the 1997 coverage, which was much more skeptical of Venus overall. Thus, as with depictions of her maturity, physicality, and intelligence, these depictions of Venus’s cocky confidence draw on pre-established, racialized social categories and narratives, while also working through how to integrate Venus into definitions of previously (mostly) white women’s tennis and thereby create a particularly circumscribed and racialized space for Venus in that world. As I explore next, however, Venus did not necessarily cooperate, allowing for reading her as resistant. The Trouble with Blackness The coverage of Venus’s supposed unwillingness to interact with the other players illustrates a consistent pressure to socialize, but it also depicts resistance as part of Venus’s difference. For example, announcers interview Venus about the locker room trouble at the 1997 U.S. Open, showing clips in which she says, “I go in, I go out. I don’t hang around. I don’t take naps in [the players’ lounge].  .  .  . I don’t dine in

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space and greet a crowd of mostly African American adults and children, and then Venus (who looks to be fifteen or sixteen years old in the clip) reads a short motivational speech from a piece of paper she holds in her hand. Following this footage, Richard speaks to an off-camera interviewer, saying “Venus is extremely educated. And our job is not so much now to worry about what Venus’s education is but to see that we can use Venus as an instrument to help other kids.” Here, she is both exceptional and an instrument of assimilation for other African Americans. Coincidentally, Venus made her breakthrough at the 1997 U.S. Open, the same year the Arthur Ashe Stadium opened in Flushing, New York. The announcers revel in this, claiming that Venus must be thrilled and honored to play in a stadium named for Ashe, and in at least one case claiming that “she’s already spoken about what an honor it is to play in that stadium.” While they do not actually say “because Ashe was also a black tennis player,” given that they make no similar claims of honor for other players, one can assume they are engaging an assimilationist narrative celebrating the exceptionalism of both Ashe and Venus. Further, when Venus made the final, the announcers introduced the match by saying “Today Venus Williams covets the trophy in hopes of following in [African American] Althea [Gibson’s] pioneering footsteps.”51 Venus, however, resists this assimilationist narrative. During a “beyond the baseline” special on her, Venus deflects the Ashe/race issue, saying “Arthur Ashe Stadium is great, but if I hadn’t practiced and worked hard, whether I play in the stadium or not wouldn’t have really mattered. So, that [presumably, race] has nothing to do with it. A lot of people say ‘good luck’ and things like that, but it’s just nothing at all. I spent hours, a lot of time, when I could have been doing other things. But I put that time in.” Like the commentators, Venus does not actually say the words “African American” or “black.” Nevertheless, by shifting to a discussion of her hard work rather than the supposed honor of playing in Ashe Stadium, she resists the depiction of her as an exceptional African American, turning again to an argument that race has nothing to do with it. Since race supposedly has nothing to do with it, it seems safe for the coverage to adore Venus’s black body, to revel in marks of blackness represented as abstract difference, unmoored from social, cultural, and historical context. This happens most often in terms of Venus’s beaded

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this illustrates her cockiness, but one could read Venus’s response as insisting that the question is not innocuous, that her beads are part of who she is and other players are going to have to get used to the role she is playing in tennis’s desegregation. In fact, NBC’s coverage of the 1997 Wimbledon tournament reported on official rules concerning Venus’s beads: If they come out, a point will be replayed. If they come out a second time, she will receive a warning. If they come out a third time, she will lose a point. While this is, in fact, the rule about any oncourt “involuntary hindrance,” as reported by NBC it seems to be (but was not) a rule written just for Venus—just for her hair/fashion. Hence, as much as the commentators love her rattling, color-coded fashion statement, the beads are in no way innocuous. They are a symbol of her blackness, a specific point for public discussion. Further, not only must her beads be regulated, but—as I discuss in detail below—they also can get her into trouble.54 * * * In sum, the coverage of Venus—especially in comparison to coverage of the other players—depicts her as a mature kid, defined by her intelligence, confidence, haughtiness, and masculine (but not sexual) physicality. Very early on, commentators are somewhat skeptical of her and her (unnamed) blackness, emphasizing her cockiness and playing up a narrative about “trouble in the locker room.” Yet they also adore her and her (unnamed) blackness, specifically celebrating her exceptionalism and assimilation, and latching on to her beads as an excuse to gaze at and adore her black body. At times in the coverage, Venus explicitly counters both of these types of characterizations, insisting that her beads sound “nice,” that she is friendly with everyone, and that there is no special connection between her and Ashe: in short, that racial difference (even when unnamed) does not—or at least should not—matter. Nevertheless, occasionally, the coverage depicts her as claiming her own blackness, such as when she asserts that other players are going to have to get used to her (beads). In the next section, I turn to three specific issues/events that offer more sustained possibilities for reading Venus not only as resistant to the ways media racialize her but also as explicitly critical of racism on the tour.

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directions regarding Venus’s family, with commentators sometimes explicitly disagreeing with one another. Both the press and television commentators report that “[Richard] doesn’t want [Venus] to get burned out, he wants to focus on education.”55 Austin, in particular, often talks about how Venus and Serena have “a terrific relationship” with their dad; he “really loves them.”56 During the 1997 U.S. Open finals, Oracene reiterates that Venus makes her own decisions about tennis, and that those decisions emerge in the context of a healthy and balanced life, telling Andrea Joyce that whether Venus starts playing more “depends on Venus, because she loves the game. . . . I always ask her the question, if she loves what she’s doing, do it. But if she doesn’t, anytime she doesn’t have to do anything, anytime she wants to stop, that’s fine with me. And she knows that. She’s loving it. She’s enjoying it. And she’s happy.” For Robinson, who is calling the match, that’s “a great perspective.” At other times, however, commentators say that Richard has raised Venus in an “isolated fashion”57 and that he “dominates the family.”58 Here, the tennis father who verbally or physically abuses his daughter haunts the depiction of Richard. In other words, ironically, the commentators evoke the abusive father when describing Richard’s choice to decrease (not increase) tennis pressure on his daughters. For Austin, Navratilova, and King, his choice is a horrible “experiment.”59 During HBO coverage of the quarterfinal match between Kournikova and Majoli at the 1997 Wimbledon, even after Venus had already lost in the first round, Billie Jean King, Mary Carillo, and Martina Navratilova have a long conversation about Venus as a “laboratory experiment”: bjk: It’s very important to play juniors. . . . mc: So, you’re saying Kournikova has been facing pressure situations her whole life? bjk: Yes, absolutely. She did the appropriate thing. You have to compete to find out what you need to do to get better. mc: Does that mean that Venus Williams has lost an awful lot of ground or can perhaps the way the Williams family has done it with Venus and her sister end up working? mn: She’s a year behind, if not more.

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There’s an awful lot of what I think is unnecessary tension. I just wish the late great Arthur Ashe were still around, because Ashe would be able to speak to Venus and her family, and speak to the other players in the locker room. And, boy, I miss him. Because this should be better than it is right now.

Here, not only does Carillo support Shriver’s (and by extension Robinson’s) argument that perhaps limiting junior play is a good thing, but she states—almost explicitly—that the critique of the Williamses for doing things differently racializes the family. She suggests that the “late great Arthur Ashe,” known as a mediator in terms of race in tennis, could help the current situation, and she assumes both Venus and the other players could benefit from Ashe’s wisdom. She leaves what she means by this vague, but one available interpretation is that she believes Ashe could help the Williams family understand and come to terms with racism on the tour, and he could help the other players recognize that their response to the Williams family is—at least in part—structured by assumptions about race rather than about the people themselves. The multiple and conflicting perspectives on the importance of the juniors are evident not only through comparisons of different conversations but also in direct disagreements among commentators. For example, at the 1998 Australian Open, Drysdale claims that the fact that Venus and Serena did not play juniors means “it’s going to take a while” for them to become number one. Shriver disagrees: “I actually think the fact that they have not played that many junior tournaments . . . is not hurting them at all. I think their progress has been terrific.” But Drysdale still insists: “I think it’s dangerous to suggest that the way to get great is not to play any junior tournaments.” Later in the tournament, Shriver brings the issue up again while calling the third round Venus Williams versus Amélie Mauresmo match. Pointing out that they are both teenagers, she goes on to say, “The one [Venus] with no junior tournament experience currently ranked number sixteen in the world . . . and the one playing all the junior tournaments [Mauresmo] ranked ninety-ninth in the world.” Overall, then, the discussion of the fact that Venus and Serena did not play in the juniors expresses a deep investment in Venus and her particular relationship to the tennis world. This coverage oscillates between almost vitriolic disdain for Richard and equally strongly

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the Williams family and the juniors, the coverage took multiple positions on that racism. With only a few minutes to figure out how to react to the collision between Venus and Spîrlea, CBS returned from commercial break and began replaying the bump repeatedly from several different camera angles, along with commentary in which Robinson explicitly claims Spîrlea intentionally caused the collision. Robinson points out that immediately after the bump Spîrlea looked up at the player’s box “with a smile,” and a relatively long take—which pans from the bump, to Spîrlea sitting, to Spîrlea looking off-screen right while smiling—supports his claim. Robinson and the producer/editor support his interpretation further by showing an image of Venus looking calm and focused during the change-over break while Robinson says, “Venus is all business here,” and Carillo follows this comment by saying “Yeah, she just handled that whole stupid incident a lot better.” In a post-match interview O’Brien asks Venus about “the bumping incident,” and in her usual fashion, Venus downplays it: “Irena wasn’t really looking. She was looking that way, actually. And then we were both walking into each other. And I kind of looked away, and when we both looked back it was too late.” Spîrlea, however, is less sanguine about it. At her press conference she says, “I’m not going to move. She’s never trying to turn or whatever. She thinks she’s the [bleeped: fucking]60 Venus Williams and she’s not going to turn, or she just went like this. I want to see if she’s turning.” During an interview with Venus the next day, Pat O’Brien and Patrick McEnroe ask Venus to respond to the fact that Spîrlea used “a four-letter word,” and Venus gasps, saying “I never heard this.” They continue talking about it while the camera stays on Venus’s face, with her mouth slightly open, showing shock. When they then play the clip for her/us, she gives a half laugh, shakes her head, and says, “I mean, she has her opinion. I can’t change it.” The live and immediate post-match television coverage clearly holds Spîrlea responsible for the bump and for offensive commentary about the bump. It also depicts Venus as taking the high road. Things become more complex, however, as discussion about racism on the tour grows in relation to the bump. Late in the match itself, Carillo actually uses the word “race” to discuss the tensions among the players, defining the bump as part of that tension (rather than, for example, considering it a

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and Lori [McNeil],”63 with a quotation from Zina Garrison herself, who offers a different perspective: “Venus is out there playing for the African American race. . . . It’s an all-white sport; you feel it, are made to feel it, like you don’t belong. So you protect yourself. And all this criticism for Venus not talking to people—Monica and Steffi didn’t talk to people either. Why are the standards different?”64 Here, the New York Times simultaneously offers two different perspectives on race: (1) there is no racism and therefore bad feelings between Venus and other players must be Venus’s fault, and (2) there is racism and therefore bad feelings between Venus and other players must be their fault or the fault of racism. The bump itself really is no longer an issue, as it functions instead simply as a vehicle to discuss racism, sometimes in a way that denies it exists and sometimes in a way that illustrates that it does exist. To end this section, I would like to return to the moment of the bump itself, replayed over and over on television for several days, and offer two possible readings that embrace what one can read as Venus’s critique of racism in tennis as a whole: (1) Did Venus bump into Spîrlea, thus standing up to the hostility she faced on tour and insisting on her right to take up space? Or, (2) Did Spîrlea bump into Venus, who responded in a calm and collected manner, unfazed by a physical jab that may or may not have been motivated by racial resentment? Either way, the bump, some of the commentary about it, and available readings of Venus’s actions all help to make possible a version of African American girlhood that stands up to racism. The Beads As I discuss above, the beads that Venus, and Serena, wore from 1997 through 1999 were a constant topic of discussion. Commentators marvel at the amount of work it takes to make up their hair with the beads, draw attention to the sound they make, and use them to play on words; promotional spots show Venus and Serena together, laughing with pleasure as they shake their heads to make their beads rattle; and editors use pictures that capture Venus and Serena in motion with their beads flying, and sometimes flying off: the beads thereby augmenting their photogenicity. The vast majority of this coverage is affectionate, functioning as a badge for the media to illustrate just how comfortable

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of Kournikova’s hair, for example, she would theoretically be subject to the same rule. In other words, the rule was not written explicitly for Venus’s (and Serena’s) beads. Yet the specificity of how beads function, and what Venus defines as a two-year tradition of ignoring her beads when they fell out, makes the application of this rule problematic, and Venus’s willingness to express a critique—not only in anger during the heat of the moment but also calmly and articulately after the match— makes clear the implicit racism in what happened. In the post-match interviews, even as Venus argues that the rule was applied to her unfairly, she also responds with her usual aplomb, deflecting the issue of racism and taking the high road. She admits, “It’s up to me to keep up on the rules,” but goes on to say in response to an implied question about whether she will change her hair, “No, I shouldn’t have to change for any other circumstances. I like my hair.” When Shriver asks her what she will do in the future, she says, “My best bet is just to tie my beads a little bit tighter and move on.” Here, she rearticulates her comfort with her racial identity/body and therefore makes clear that the tour and the media have no choice but to come to terms with it. Thus, both during and immediately after this controversy, one can read Venus as articulating a critique of racism on the tour, while also embracing the method she has used to deal with that racism since she began: refuse to engage in debate, focus on her own game and life, and move on. This in itself can be read as a critique of racism on the tour, since she makes clear that, in the end, racism is the problem of the tennis world; it is not her problem, even as the media and others may work desperately to try to foist onto her the difference they make of her.

Conclusion The drama of race in Venus’s breakthrough teen years begins with the media’s ignorance and somewhat stereotypical depictions, but, as Venus competes in more matches, the possibility for a complex drama, emerging in part because of the immediacy of live/near-live coverage, complicates the versions of girlhood available. Certainly, neither the rules of tennis nor the sport’s overwhelmingly white history come under direct or sustained scrutiny. Rather than focus on the system and norms of whiteness, the coverage focuses on difference and defines that difference

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While, of all the mediated girls I discuss in this book, Gunn is likely the least well-known, she nevertheless functioned and in some ways continues to function as a spectacular girl for particular communities. She is well-known to some of us: to queer, African American, feminist, and/or Newark-based journalists, activists, and scholars. This chapter, then, takes seriously the role spectacular girls play in more specific and explicitly defined contexts. If the goal of the book is to look for alternative versions of girlhood, then I pursue that goal here by asking what a queer African American girlhood looks like in the parts of media culture in which it does appear. One way to answer this question is to point out that while, for example, I have to work to read Jessica Dubroff as queer (chapter 2), and while I have to work to find a critique of heteronormativity in Mean Girls (2004) (chapter 3), in the local and alternative press Gunn is already explicitly queer; thus, by looking at this kind of media I do not have to use an interpretive practice that works against more explicit representations to invest her case with queer sensibilities. Similarly, while I have to grab at mere seconds of live television in which I hear Venus Williams’s voice crack in anger as she stands up to racism in professional tennis, the press coverage of Gunn’s death explicitly and with no resistance accepts and defines it as a bias crime against an LGBTQ youth, thereby taking a specifically politicized position. This does not make Gunn a “better” example of a queer and/or African American girl; rather, it makes her a different kind of example, one only observable through the lens of local and alternative media. As I illustrate through my analysis in this chapter, however, turning to the alternative press does not mean one will necessarily find a radical critique of dominant girlhoods. As Kent Ono and John Sloop argue, vernacular discourse requires as careful critical attention as does more mainstream discourse,7 and, as Sarah Banet-Weiser argues, alternative media outlets (such as YouTube) do not necessarily guarantee liberatory representations.8 In this case, I argue, it is particularly troubling that almost none of the local and alternative coverage addresses the specificity of Gunn as girl. In my analysis and in response to the coverage, then, not only do I point out that Gunn functions as a tragic and/or heroic African American and/or queer figure, but I also insist on pausing over brief and/or passing references to her youth in order to build

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Media Specificity: From National, to Local, to Alternative As I illustrate below, when moving from national, to local, to alternative media, one finds an increasing quantity of coverage, level of detail, and attention to LGBTQ and power issues beyond the Gunn case in particular, as well as authors who more explicitly support LGBTQ issues, sometimes writing from personal experience. To document this, I first discuss where articles were published and then address how different types of media defined the facts of the case. Where Was the Media Coverage? While it is unquestionably true that there was little national coverage of Gunn’s death, what little national press, television, and radio coverage there was is worth considering. Fifteen nationally distributed articles or programs either reported on (twelve) or mentioned (three) Gunn, beginning two days after her death and ending more than four years later. On television, only a few weeks after Gunn’s death CNN covered the events briefly during On the Story9 and one week later ran a special on “The Death of Sakia Gunn” as part of Live from the Headlines,10 a show the Gay and Lesbian Alliance against Defamation (GLAAD) Media Awards nominated for best TV journalism.11 The New York Times (NYT)12 published four short articles reporting the facts of the case, starting two days after the murder and ending with McCullough’s indictment.13 No NYT article covered McCullough’s plea bargain or sentencing, but one year after her death the paper ran an article titled “Newark Preaches Tolerance of Gays Year after Killing.”14 Unlike the NYT, the Washington Post did not cover the murder when it happened, but seventeen months later it published a two-part front-page story about one of Gunn’s friends as part of a special series on “Growing Up in an Evolving America,” referring to Gunn from time to time throughout the articles.15 Subsequently, it reported briefly when McCullough pled guilty and again when he was sentenced.16 More than three years after the murder, NPR broadcast an interview with journalist and public intellectual Kristal Brent Zook, during which she discussed the Gunn case in conjunction with her book Black Women’s Lives: Stories of Pain and Power.17 Finally, Gunn appears in passing as a generic example

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Figure 5.1. Sakia Gunn on the cover of the New York Blade five days after her death, May 16, 2003.

characterizations of Gunn; reporting on many more vigils, rallies, and forms of activism than the other two sets of sources; and spending time addressing a “lack of coverage/outrage” about Gunn’s death. In these ways, the NJ/NY coverage represents Gunn much more as an individual who matters than does the national and non–NJ/NY local

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and “poor.” Gunn was traveling home from a “party in Manhattan”32 or simply “New York City”33 with friends. While waiting for a bus at “the busiest [intersection] in the city,”34 two men in a car made “advances.”35 The “girls rebuffed” them.36 Some articles mention that the girls said “they were not interested in the men because they were gay”37 or “lesbians.”38 None of the national articles and only one of the non–NJ/NY local articles reports that “the men began spewing homophobic insults,”39 although one article, published when McCullough pled guilty, reports that “he admitted calling Gunn a ‘dyke.’”40 When reporting the murder, without mentioning McCullough’s and/or his companion’s inflammatory comments, most articles simply report that a “scuffle”41 or “shoving match”42 or “struggle”43 or “tussle”44 or “fight”45 ensued after Gunn/the girls stated they were gay/lesbians. During the fight either McCullough or both men “accosted the girls,”46 and McCullough stabbed Gunn in the chest. Admittedly, while not explicitly presented as such, it does not take much for the reader of the national and non–NJ/NY local press to realize this story is about an African American girl killed, at least in part, because of her sexuality and gender presentation. Nevertheless, the NJ/NY local press actually reports the facts in a way that emphasizes this is an LGBTQ rights case: no reading between the lines is required. These details include reports of Gunn and her friends’ self-definition as AGs who explicitly performed masculinity through dress and behavior, as well as the fact that they were returning not from a “party” in New York City but from Greenwich Village and/or the Christopher Street Piers, well-known LBGTQ hangouts. An article in one local New York paper even paints an (imagined) picture of the night Gunn spent on the Christopher Street Piers: “Perhaps she roosted on the pier, or feasted at McDonald’s, or simply delighted in holding hands with another girl and being part of the undesignated street parade.”47 A Star-Ledger article published just two days after the murder is the first of many local articles to include information and quotations from local LGBTQ rights activists.48 In fact, most NJ/NY articles include LGBTQ information, even when their titles imply that they are simply “fact pieces” about different aspects of the case as they develop (e.g., “Man Charged in Bus Stop Stabbing Arraigned”).49 Often, the articles end with a quotation from a pro-LGBTQ activist, thus closing with a positive and supportive perspective on LGBTQ people.

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and homophobia are involved.53 While Gunn and her friends chose to respond to McCullough by verbally declaring their sexuality, Felicia reports to Hull that after Gunn’s death she and another friend of Gunn’s were walking down the street when four men tried to talk to them. Rather than respond, as did Gunn and her friends, they made a different choice: “The girls kept their heads down.” This different response made no difference: the men jumped them, “Valencia [got] a bloody nose and mouth, and Felicia [was] thrown to the ground.”54 While Hull does not make this point herself, through comparison a reader might reflect on the fact that there is no safe response once gendered harassment begins. Thus the article implicitly suggests it was beside the point how Gunn and her friends responded: McCullough initiated street harassment and, in this case, carried it through to its most extreme conclusion.55 Overall, the national coverage downplays LGBTQ aspects of the case. In contrast, the local NJ/NY coverage acknowledges LGBTQ aspects of the case and the alternative press foregrounds them. Additionally, the national press (except for the Washington Post feature) at least initially implies Gunn and McCullough have equivalent power and are equally at fault, while the NJ/NY press, as well as a reading of Gunn’s case in relation to the later case on which Hull reports, suggest that the facts illustrate gendered power differences between Gunn and McCullough. Thus, in terms of these two issues, there are significant differences among the national, local NJ/NY, and alternative press. Consistent across all these sources, however, is lack of attention to Gunn as a girl. While articles sometimes mention her age, as a whole the way they present the facts—a man approached her, she resisted, he stabbed her—suggests she just as well could have been an adult woman. In other words, when thinking specifically about the facts of the case through all this material, this is not a story about a girl. This finding, of course, leads me in the next section, in which I set about reading Gunn as a girl nevertheless.

Is Sakia Gunn a Girl at All? As I discuss below, the various types of media separate specific aspects of Gunn’s identity—defining her as a tragic victim, or as a fallen LGBTQ hero, or as an impetus for pro-queer or anti-racism activism. By reading

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about basketball and school, NJ/NY articles mention that, for example, she “had a talent for braiding hair and doing fashionable hairstyles for friends.”58 The same article reports that Gunn liked to eat, especially “Cap’n Crunch and hot wings.” Such food conjures up an especially childlike diet, more so because (the article implies) she enjoyed eating those two foods together. This article ends on a particularly poignant note, pointing out that “Aaliyah, a singer who died in an airplane crash almost two years ago, was her favorite” musical artist.59 Further, some of the supposed difficulties in Gunn’s life the one national article and one non–NJ/NY local article report drop out of the NJ/NY local coverage. For example, one NJ/NY article implies she was still on the basketball team: “A high school basketball player, Gunn dreamed of going to college on a basketball scholarship on her way to becoming a professional ball player.”60 Emphasizing her innocence and value to the community, another article reports that her friends remember Gunn “as a fun-loving teen who didn’t like to see anyone sad or in pain. They said she shared what she had, kept a smile on her face, and lived for the moment.”61 As the judge put it in a quotation that ends a NJ/NY article reporting on McCullough’s sentencing hearing, “This is a young lady who would have accomplished a lot in her life.”62 In retrospect, then, Gunn was nothing but happy and optimistic, taking great pleasure in the little things in life and looking forward to a bright future. In short, she was an innocent, loveable child. While the national and non–NJ/NY local coverage define Gunn simply as “a gay/lesbian,” the NJ/NY local coverage makes the fact of her sexuality part of the tragedy of the loss. Thus, in the NJ/NY coverage the innocent loveable child is a queer child. For example, local coverage often reports that Gunn “dressed in boyish clothes,”63 sometimes mentioning that this “marked her as an ‘AG,’ or aggressive lesbian,”64 sometimes defined as “aggressive girl.”65 One article acknowledges “transgender” as one way to describe Gunn, reporting on Princeton University’s celebration of Transgender Day of Remembrance. It quotes a representative of the Gender Rights Advocacy Association of New Jersey as saying “She may not have identified as a transgendered person but we included her because she exhibited a cross-gender presentation.”66 Many articles suggest not only that Gunn was comfortable with her sexuality,67 but also that “nobody bothered her about it.”68 Because

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victim!”), once it is asked it subtly changes Gunn’s characterization, depicting her as independent and risk-taking as much (more than?) as innocent and victimized. Here, the alternative press produces a much more powerful figure than does the mainstream press and suggests that by taking up space she was not “supposed” to be in at 3:30 a.m., Gunn confronted the gendered and sexualized politics of public space. Importantly, the alternative coverage that produces Gunn as hero does not also emphasize her youth or girlness as do the national and local depictions of her as innocent. Thus, one possible argument is that collectively the coverage situates heroism in a separate sphere from girlhood, and that therefore girlhood remains endangered and in need of protection. Nevertheless, youthful innocence does emerge alongside her heroism in some of these articles. Thus, I would argue that—especially if one reads across multiple types of media and emphasizes the brief comments on Gunn’s youth, as I do here—Gunn is a heroic queer girl. “Sakia Gunn Is the Impetus” The themes of activism for LGBTQ rights in general, as well as the environment for members of LGBTQ communities, African Americans, and/or youth in Newark in particular, appear frequently throughout the coverage, but with different inflections in the various types of media. In the non–NJ/NY local press, Gunn usually appears not because of her death in particular, but as evidence that the paper takes LGBTQ concerns seriously: her death is thus an impetus for general interest in LGBTQ issues. Similarly, the alternative coverage uses Gunn as evidence, but here the less-optimistic argument is that Gunn’s death proves the need for continued vigilance against hate crimes: Gunn is the impetus for further activism. The NJ/NY local coverage is also pessimistic, focusing specifically on the way in which Newark—as a city and a community—may have contributed to and then did or did not respond to Gunn’s murder in relation to both LGBTQ and race issues. In fact, all three types of media use Gunn’s murder to define Newark as a generic problem, so much so that over time the LGBTQ specificity of her case falls away and her death becomes just one more example of violence in Newark. As I illustrate below, regardless of the inflections in the coverage, the particularity of Gunn as a queer African American girl is not

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irrelevant. Within less than a month after Gunn’s death, NJ/NY coverage began critiquing the mayor’s office for failing to provide resources for LGBTQ youth. For example, one article reports on a march that took place two and a half weeks after the funeral, “calling on Mayor Sharpe James to follow through on a pledge to meet with [gay rights advocates] about setting up a gay and lesbian counseling center for teens.” The article says the city’s health director had been assigned to meet with members of the LGBTQ rights community, but that activists “believe the city is moving too slowly.”80 Other articles mention the fact that the city still has not opened a community center for LGBTQ youth81 and that the new PFLAG chapter plans to continue pressuring the city.82 In short, the local NJ/NY press uses Gunn to make clear the need for continued attention to LGBTQ issues in Newark. When reading across multiple types of media, the problem with Newark becomes not only a lack of commitment to LGBTQ issues, but also a question of race. For example, the author of a NYT article published on the anniversary of Gunn’s death is concerned about “the plight and isolation of a growing number of minority teenagers who are openly gay or lesbian in cities like Newark.”83 A great deal of the coverage is quite direct in its indictment of Newark. An AP commentary specifically discusses “anti-gay bias within the predominantly black community” of Newark, and holds the (implicitly African American) local church responsible (in part) for Gunn’s murder because of preaching “homophobia.” The article also criticizes the lack of “mainstream gay-rights” media coverage of the case, blaming the silence on Gunn’s race and socioeconomic class. Emphasizing the indictment of both the church and these gay rights groups, the author reports that when he tried to contact these groups “calls were not returned.”84 Despite all this attention early on to LGBTQ issues in the context of an African American community, as time wore on the NJ/NY local coverage began to report on the case in ways that dissociated Gunn’s death from LGBTQ issues entirely, instead linking it to general street and youth violence, particularly in African American communities such as Newark.85 For example, some articles report on a caravan of cars that moved through Essex County to protest violence in the area. The articles mention Gunn’s name as one among the many murders the caravan protests, but they do not mention that her murder was an

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of discomfort with and disrespect for these girls’ behavior on the part of the author, this is just one of many articles that make clear that many queer youth lived openly prior to Gunn’s murder. Collectively, the NJ/ NY coverage also mentions as many as ten activist organizations in the Newark area that existed at the time of the murder, including the New York City Gay and Lesbian Anti-violence Program,90 the Lambda Legal Defense and Education Fund,91 the Anti-defamation League of New Jersey,92 the Anti-violence Enough Is Enough Coalition,93 the New Jersey Stonewall Democrats,94 the African American Office of Gay Concerns in Newark,95 the Northern Jersey Community Outreach Initiative,96 the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Student Services at Princeton University,97 the Gender Rights Advocacy Association of New Jersey,98 and Queer Watch.99 Additionally, coverage mentions some religious organizations as sharing the outrage over Gunn’s death and supporting LGBTQ rights. For example, one article quotes “Rev. Thomas Ellis, head of the Anti-violence Enough Is Enough Coalition and an outreach minister at Newark’s Jehovah Jehri Christian Worship Center.”100 And Rev. Jacquelyn Holland, pastor of Newark’s Liberation in Truth Unity Fellowship Church, appears frequently, illustrating that this church openly supports LGBTQ rights and has many LGBTQ members. Several articles report that Reverend Holland hopes “to establish a neighborhood drop-in center where gay teens can come for counseling, employment help, and reassurance.” The article quotes her as saying “We want to let [LGBTQ youth] know it’s OK to be who they are. . . . [Gunn] didn’t do anything wrong by being a lesbian.”101 Further, additional organizations emerged immediately following Gunn’s death. For example, the press reports on Newark Pride, defined as “a coalition of gay and lesbian advocates and supporters”;102 the Aggressive’z and Fem’z,103 also identified as “the Sakia Gunn Aggressive and Fem Organization,” founded by Jamon Marsh and Valencia Bailey;104 and finally the Newark chapter of PFLAG, generally reported as being formed in response to both Gunn’s death in May 2003 and the death of Shani Baraka (daughter of poet Amiri Baraka) in August 2003.105 Many articles also report on the PFLAG scholarship established in Gunn’s name.106 In ending this section by turning to a reading of the coverage that pulls out snippets of evidence of LGBTQ youth life in Newark prior to and immediately following Gunn’s death, my goal is to imagine the life

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Advance compares the lack of coverage of Gunn to the substantial coverage of Matthew Shepard’s and Brandon Teena’s deaths, and points to race and class as the reasons for the difference. This article claims, “News of Sakia’s murder barely made any newspapers in the tri-state area,”108 and, despite the fact that this is not true, the comparison to the quantity of national coverage of Shepard and Brandon Teena still stands. In the alternative press, sometimes authors critique the African American community for not paying more attention to Gunn,109 sometimes they critique the LGBTQ community for implicit racism and classism evidenced by the intense attention paid to Matthew Shepard as compared to Gunn,110 occasionally they critique “women’s groups” such as the Feminist Majority and the National Organization for Women for not taking Gunn’s death up as a feminist cause,111 but most often the authors critique the mainstream corporate press by writing articles with titles such as “Sakia Gunn: Why the Silence?”112 They argue that, in comparison, Shepard was easy to take on as a fallen son of the nation because “he was the ‘All-American’ boy”: white, middle-class, and educated.113 Coverage also compares Gunn to less famous and generic cases. For example, articles sometimes use Gunn to illustrate and confront continuing “violence against gays,”114 as evidence that “antigay hate crime may be on the rise,”115 or “as an example of how far anti-gay discrimination can go.”116 These articles mention Gunn only briefly and are primarily about other topics (e.g., the Denver PrideFest, an “antigay” assault on a Boston woman, and the “Blacks Facing AIDS Crisis,” respectively). Published in the African American newspaper the New York Beacon, Kay Wright’s “Bigotry by Any Other Name” is about the intersection of race and sexuality and the importance of fighting bigotry against gays, blacks, and “Black gay people.” She writes: By banning same-sex couples from legal marriage, our government makes a statement to its gay taxpayers: Your love is not valid. That is the same statement Sakia Gunn’s killer made. It is the statement made by those who torment the one-third of gay students who report having skipped school in the last month due to fear. And it is the statement too many Black community leaders made as they watched thousands of Black gay men die of AIDS rather than rally to demand our government invest in scientific research and pay for treatments that could have saved those Black lives.117

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frequent street harassment. Reading across multiple media to construct her thusly, I define her as a spectacular girl taking up public space, one who is available through media representation, despite the fact that I have to work fairly hard with and against media representations to find (this version of) her.

Conclusion: Queer African American Girlhood Taking Up Social, Creative, and Intellectual Space The goals of this chapter are (1) to insist Sakia Gunn is a spectacular girl, that there is substantial coverage of her case even if it is not in the national press, and (2) to challenge the way in which Gunn most often functions as a relatively empty signifier in this coverage. I can read the specificity of Gunn’s case—her racialized transgender/AG presentation and the fact that she took up space (by going into the Village, using public transportation at 3:30 a.m., and fighting back both verbally and physically)—as long as I turn not only to nonmainstream sources but also to brief moments in all the coverage that at least gesture toward a girlhood other than the tragic dead girl who can become everyone’s darling and/or hero. On the one hand, admittedly, lack of sustained mainstream national attention means that “Sakia Gunn” is not a household name as are “Selena Gomez,” “Juno,” and “Venus Williams.” On the other hand, using a feminist media criticism methodology to look beyond the national media can turn our attention to girls such as Gunn who provide an opportunity to imagine a queer black girlhood that unapologetically takes up public space, that participates in a public conversation about girlhood, and that unequivocally is a part of media culture. A few other scholars and artists have imagined Sakia Gunn in the specificity of her girlhood as well. Three in particular do more than mention Gunn in passing.121 First, Charles B. Brack’s documentary film Dreams Deferred: The Sakia Gunn Film Project (2008) follows Gunn’s family and friends after the murder and through McCullough’s sentencing hearing. By documenting both mundane elements of everyday life and the dramatic trauma of her friends’ and family’s pain as played out in the courtroom, the film defines Gunn as meaningful as an individual friend/daughter/niece. Journalist/scholar Kristal Brent Zook also draws on interviews with Gunn’s family and friends, writing an entire chapter

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and cogent critique. Gunn is present in the performance not only as a literal image in the background, but also as a queer black girl who matters—to the character in the play, to Brown as playwright and scholar, and (through engagement with the performance) to the audience. I am influenced and inspired by Brack’s, Zook’s, and Brown’s work on Gunn, I want this chapter to speak with and to this other work, and I, too, strive to imagine Gunn’s girlhood in its specificity. Nevertheless, because of my focus on media coverage I also want to draw attention to three limitations in the girlhood I read through Gunn. First, narratives of Gunn as innocent victim and as a symbol of all that is wrong with (African American) Newark and the media (both LGBTQ and mainstream) predominate. Thus, the bulk of the coverage systematically eliminates Gunn’s uniqueness as an African American AG girl—(at least part of) the very reason Brack, Zook, Brown, and I take her up as a subject in the first place. Second, this chapter identifies a media-type continuum running from the mainstream national coverage and local non–NJ/NY coverage, through the local NJ/NY coverage, and finally to the alternative press. On the national end of a continuum, Gunn is an innocent girl tragically killed for vaguely sexualized reasons. On the alternative press end of the continuum, Gunn is a hero and a warrior, fighting at the moment of her death and as a symbol after her death for LGBTQ rights. On the one hand, thinking of the analysis in this chapter in this way makes clear the importance of reading across multiple types of sources in order to understand a particular case study in a multidimensional way. On the other hand, like the dominant narratives about Gunn, this continuum is rather predictable, implying a national = bad but alternative/queer = good argument that is all but a given when someone writes from the feminist, antiracist, queer-identified perspective I seek to maintain throughout this book. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, it is important to remember that Gunn is spectacular in any media context only because of her death. Thus, while I insist on understanding Gunn as a spectacular alternative girl, I also want to stress that her spectacularization depends on her death; her presence in this book requires her absence from the world. Here in the conclusion, I want to acknowledge the predictable narratives and media types, as well as the tragic irony of the necessity of death for Gunn to become spectacular. Nevertheless, I also want to pause over

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and nuanced ideas about girls and gender in media. In this way, the students helped me see versions of girlhood that were alternative, even where I had not expected to find them. (2) The girls in the class did not express a “lack of self-esteem” or an overinvestment in a sexualized identity. While this finding undoubtedly is partly evidence that a researcher will find what she is looking for (i.e., in my case, proof the Ophelia Thesis is false), by addressing specific ways that girls articulate an analytical relationship to media representations, I hope to give shape and depth to the alternative versions of girlhood the students presented to me. (3) The girls in the classroom turned out not to be that different from the boys in terms of their analytical relationship to the media, and thus they did not take on the role of a vulnerable or damaged (or empowered, for that matter) class of gendered media consumers. As I discuss more fully below, while there were certainly differences in the shows girls and boys watched and what they had to say about the representation of gender, and while most of them self-segregated along gender lines when they chose small groups, and while they certainly wanted to talk about gender (with little to no prompting from me), girls and boys alike tended to approach media analysis in quite similar ways. In short, in this chapter, I argue that girls (and boys) offer analytical perspectives on media. Further, I argue that understanding girls as media critics is a useful response to the Ophelia Thesis, one that can not only challenge it but also go some way toward deflating it—a key goal of this book. And, finally, I argue that media scholarship about girls and literacy programs for girls can profitably start with an understanding of girls as media critics in order to better achieve the goal of helping girls maintain and grow a healthy and skeptical relationship to all media. In the first section, I build my argument for a scholarly understanding of girls as media critics, as related to but distinct from a series of other bodies of literature about girls’ relationships to media: (1) popular crossover Ophelia Thesis books about the dangerous impact of media on girls; (2) what I consider a scholarly investigation of this argument in some media effects literature; (3) work on girls as media producers, sometimes in the context of after-school and/or empowerment programs for girls; (4) critical media literacy; and (5) audience studies focused on girls in particular. We have strong literatures on girls as media victims, audiences, producers, and students, but what of girls as media critics? If we

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then, to talking with the students about analysis rather than criticism whenever possible, and I use “analysis” rather than “criticism” throughout this chapter, wherever possible. While I do mean “analysis” simply as a synonym for “criticism,” I want to acknowledge here that the very word “critical” feels wrong to at least some of the students with whom I worked. This does not mean they do not engage in critical thinking (far from it), but I do think that this regulation of language and thought (they are not allowed to be—or possibly to say—”critical”) could influence the ways that the students think about their relationships to the texts they encounter at home, at school, and/or in the media. Regardless, in deference to the students, throughout this chapter I emphasize their analytical abilities as examples of what scholars and educators might call “critical thinking” but that they would likely call “being smart.” Second, while one of my goals was to “include girls’ voices” as evidence of their analytical relationship to media, the idea of “giving voice” to girls is problematic. Even if I were to publish girls’ written media analyses (as I had hoped to do), that would not mean they did not already have voice, or that what I (as a sanctioned university professor) had to offer (i.e., publishing their writing in a relatively obscure academic book) would somehow benefit or even interest them. In Black Girlhood Celebration, Ruth Nicole Brown discusses the fraught process of presenting girls’ creative production publicly. She challenges scholars and artists (including herself) not to “pimp” girls’ work by using it to serve the interests of the adult in the academic or performance world.7 She also challenges scholars who reproduce girls’ work in a way that implies the work can “speak for itself,” without providing the context of production, information about the girls who produced the work, or the scholar’s own interpretation and understanding of the work, including why she or he chose to make the work public. Thus, following Brown, I make space for girls’ media analysis, but I do so in an attempt to speak to/with, rather than to co-opt, that material. This approach is particularly important because (as I discuss in more detail below) none of the girls wanted to sit down and write a media analysis essay for me anyway. Even when I asked them to do so in a variety of different ways, they both implicitly and explicitly refused. Thus they made it impossible for me simply to “publish” their work, and they asserted the specificity of their (non-writing) voices from day one.

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I should be clear that I am not making a counterargument that it is perfectly all right for girls to strive to achieve the idealized bodies and selves media present. In fact, as Maya Götz illustrates, only approximately 30 percent of the girl bodies that appear in children’s television worldwide are physically attainable by an actual human body (compared to approximately 70 percent of boy bodies in children’s television). This does not even mean were girls’ bodies to look like those 30 percent of attainable media bodies that they would be healthy: many of the 30 percent attainable bodies would be anorexic.10 Certainly, these kinds of representations of girls’ bodies need critique. Neither am I making an argument that the many, many young college women who have told me that they read Reviving Ophelia when they were in high school and that it “really helped them” are deluding themselves. In fact, I am delighted these girls found a resource that helped them navigate their ongoing relationships with themselves, their bodies, and the media. Nevertheless, what I am arguing is that both Reviving Ophelia and, more important, the way “Ophelia” has become a household word contribute to an ideology of white girl in peril and in need of protection. The more pervasive this ideology, the more it obscures other versions of girlhood. Of all the Ophelia Thesis books I have managed to read all the way through, M. Gigi Durham’s The Lolita Effect is the most nuanced and maintains the most systematic intersectional feminist analysis throughout. Yet, even Durham, who is an important girls’ studies scholar and has done much to complicate our understand of the relationship between gender and race in her scholarly research on girl audiences11— given the genre of the Ophelia Thesis books—was unable to avoid in The Lolita Effect reproducing the assumption that “thong underwear for ten-year-olds” are, by definition, bad. Even as she makes the bold feminist move in her book of defining herself as a “pro-sex feminist” and of insisting on the importance of girls’ sexuality and the existence of sexuality in tweens and children, even as she repeatedly insists that “sex is a normal and healthy part of life, even of children’s lives,”12 in this crossover book she is unable to imagine how a tween might experience her own sexuality through, for example, micro-minis. I am not making a “postfeminist playground”13 argument here that objectifying fashion is just plain fun and we (i.e., old-fashioned feminists) should get over it.14

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These programs and this research flip the Ophelia Thesis in the following way: the girl is figured as powerful, active, and in charge of herself and the production of media. Yet some of the empowerment projects also start from the very same premise as the Ophelia Thesis: that girls need protection from media, and that adults can—indeed, must—provide that protection.20 The difference is that Ophelia Thesis books and films seek to leave their readers/viewers feeling panicky, guilty, and desperate to shield vulnerable girls from the media; while media production empowerment programs and some scholarship about them hope to leave their readers/observers feeling energized and goal-oriented, ready to take on the world by talking back to media and speaking up by producing media texts themselves.21 Despite the invigorating energy generated by media production programs for girls, I found myself relatively uninterested in taking this approach when thinking about how to engage with actual girls. I realized that, while many media production programs exist, to my knowledge there are few if any media criticism programs for girls. As a media critic (as opposed to media maker) I am personally invested in the act of writing and speaking analytically: not by being critical in a third-grade sense, but by understanding, taking apart, and reworking the representations I encounter on a daily basis. Might girls also care about this? Might they, in fact, already engage in this kind of thinking, talking, and writing, given that they already have the means of production (pencil, pen, paint, paper, keyboard, costume, body, and voice) for this kind of response to media? These questions led me to explore additional scholarly literatures that focus on children’s interaction with media, starting with media literacy. There are several approaches to children’s media literacy as a field, but all of them have to do with teaching children22 something about media, and many of them intersect with the Ophelia Thesis’s protectionism. One approach starts with the implicit assumption that children know very little about media and “are inherently uncritical[; thus] it is the teacher’s job to make them critical.”23 Publications within this area offer suggestions or models for how to teach children about how media work.24 What is often called “critical media literacy” also seeks to teach children about media, but explicitly articulates a political purpose: to illustrate for students that media reproduce racist and sexist ideas (for example) and to give them the analytical tools they need to

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words, my question is not: “How does audience X interact with media product Y?” My goal is not to understand all of the ways students interact with media. Rather, I hone in on students’ analytical activities and ask: “What are girls doing, writing, saying, and creating that can be understood to be critical analysis?” This is thus a much more focused question than that of a typical audience study. In sum, my commitment to girls as media critics is to conceive of thinking girls in contradistinction to the Ophelia Thesis and its impact on various scholarly fields; to imagine—in addition to media production and audience pleasure—media analysis as a powerful experience for girls; and to think about the literacies girls already have rather than the ones I (as an adult scholar) might wish for them. I take girls seriously as media critics with particular strategies, interests, and methods. Can they, in fact, teach trained feminist media scholars, such as myself, a thing or two about how to think analytically about cultural representations of girls?

The Media Project: Methods For two weeks during spring 2009, I spent one to two hours a day in my daughter’s twenty-one-student, third-grade Midwest public school classroom working with students on what they named the “Media Project.” After those two weeks, I returned six times over the course of approximately two months to work with students who chose to continue the project in small groups. Finally, I returned to the classroom during the last week of school for one last discussion and to thank the students with a pizza party. I developed my plan for the project in conjunction with the classroom teacher, who encouraged me both to think of the project in terms of “units” and to link the project to the work she was already doing in class. With her gracious help, I planned four distinct units, which I then adapted in response to students’ comments and activities during the project. In effect, I functioned like a student teacher might, working with the students on a topic but also deferring to their teacher as the ultimate classroom authority. That said, the students knew I was a university professor, a parent of a student in class, and an experienced teacher; hence, I was lucky not to have to work very hard to gain their attention or trust.

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selected from those airing during several different contemporary children’s programs. Then, we watched an episode of Wizards of Waverly Place (2007–2012, hereafter Wizards)—the television show that many of them voted we watch, that they had mentioned most often, and that stars Selena Gomez, the girl celebrity they had mentioned most often. After that, we watched an episode of Sabrina, the Teenage Witch (1996–2003, hereafter Sabrina), which I chose (even though they had not voted for it) because I hoped it would help them think about Alex—Selena Gomez’s girl wizard character—in a comparative way. After each screening we discussed what we noticed. I occasionally tried to encourage them to enact the analytical methods I had told them they already knew how to use, but they just wanted to tell their classmates and me what they thought about the material. The fourth and final unit of the project was designed for students who expressed interest in pursuing media analysis further. I invited all the students to participate in the fourth unit during their lunch hour. While I provided lunch, they had to give up their recess time in order to participate. I was pleased that approximately one-third of the students chose to continue the project. My plan was to work with the students as they wrote short media analysis essays that I could then include in my book. As I discuss in more detail below, none of the students wanted to write an essay, and only a few of them cooperated when, on the second day (with the classroom teacher’s encouragement), I actually insisted that they write analyses rather than create their own stories; the first two days were mostly frustrating for them and for me. After the second day, this unit evolved into two small group discussions (one all girls, the other most of those same girls plus one boy) in which we gave up all semblance of trying to write anything and just talked about media. With the students’ and their parents’ permission, I audiotaped as much of the project as was technologically feasible—using several different recorders to pick up as many different comments and conversations as possible—including group work when I was not present. I transcribed the approximately twenty hours of audiotaped material myself. The analysis that follows is based on those transcripts, on the notes I took following each day in the classroom, and on my memories of the experience. All quotations are taken from the transcripts.

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the prompt “create a scene from a television show” to mean “duplicate,” such that their performance was extremely accurate in its reproduction of the original scene. While planning their performance, they thought carefully about how to use costume to portray the characters accurately. After their performance, classmates asked them why they chose to leave out particular parts of the episode, revealing that they also knew the text extremely well. Thus, here I am suggesting that the act of knowing a text in intricate detail is itself a form of analysis. More specifically, many students implicitly employed genre and/ or narrative analysis when describing details, although they did not label it as such. For example, one student showed she understood how generic conventions produce humor when she said, “Sabrina is funny because she usually gets into trouble [and then] fixes it with magic.” And Rachel30 praised what I would call adventure stories for their narrative structure: sarah: Why do you like stories that are so complicated or “wrapped up,” as you said it?31 rachel: Because it gives more tang to the story. sarah: Why do you like a story that has tang? rachel: Because if it was a very plaid [sic] story and it didn’t have enough interacting then it wouldn’t be as good as one with tang. sarah: You described tang, but what do you like about it? rachel: It makes me be excited for what’s happening in the next part or the next part.

Here, Rachel creates her own analytical vocabulary in order to express her ideas about narrative structure and tone, to make clear her understanding of the fast pace of adventure narratives with “tang.” While their ability to use what I would call close textual analysis to describe structure, genre, and narrative matches a typical definition of media criticism, I would argue that the intensity of their attention to detail is, in and of itself, a form of analysis in that it provided them with unequivocal evidence to support their arguments. At times, I was slow to realize just how analytical their attention to details was. For example, after we watched an episode of Sabrina in which Sabrina’s class goes on a fieldtrip to Salem, Massachusetts, I asked what themes or “lessons” they

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asking question after question. I would argue, then, that not only the questions they ask of media but also the act of questioning are a dimension of their analytical activity. Some of the questions were about media as a global industry: Why did they do that thing in February where they make your TVs [digital rather than analog]? What’s the country with the most TV factories in it?

Other questions were about how media technology works: When they make a movie . . . do they . . . film one part and then . . . take a break, because . . . in different movies it’s day for thirty minutes and [then] it’s night? Is there a similarity [in] the build of the television and the radio?

A few students also challenged me by asking me questions about myself: Which kind of computer do you like better [Apple or PC]? Why do you study media?

Perhaps my favorite question was one that challenged the invisible parents in the room: “Why does TV rot your brain?” While the student who asked this could have meant, “How does it happen?” or “Why do adults think that?” either way, she was reflecting back to the (imagined) speaking parent/teacher, challenging that adult to explain her/himself. Here I want to draw attention to the way this question challenges the idea that media are inherently “bad.” Really, why is it that we assume media rot our children’s brains? In fact, I would argue that the many, many questions these third graders ask of media are evidence that their brains are not rotten and that, at least at times, media encourage inquisitive thinking. Given that the assumption that “TV rots our brains” is a non-genderspecific version of “media lower girls’ self-esteem,” by extension I would hypothesize that for some girls media do not necessarily lower their selfesteem but instead provide a context in which to ask questions such as “Why [do adults think] media lower my self-esteem?” or “Why do girls on TV spend so much time thinking about their fashion and bodies?”

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At first, LeAnn’s description feels literal (“I push 5 and then 7”), although already humorous and cheeky (not “I push 57,” but “I push 5 and then 7”), and maybe even worrisome: she is happy the remote saves her some labor and she yells at her family. Is she a media-damaged girl, glued to the couch and addicted to the Disney Channel? Yet by the end of the essay it seems clear that she has written a fantasy of empowerment about her relationship to media. One way to understand her fantasy is as resistant to my resolve that she write about media. While she did so, she also created a scene—wrote a screenplay—thereby making media as much as she wrote about it. Further, her story can be understood to be about the power of her voice over and against both the medium and the technology of television. Thus her essay goes from a girl who barely wants to lift a finger (Ophelia?) to a girl who has a voice so powerful it can (almost) break glass. In LeAnn’s story, television enables her power. And by writing her story, she addresses the relationship between television and power and how it intersects with her, her place in her family, and her relationship to a school project—writing about media—that she had made very clear she really did not want to do. In all these ways, her creative story works as an analysis of both media and social power. “I Think It’s Kind of Unfair”: Gender Analysis Noticing details, asking questions, and being creative—what I am calling analytical activities—are all powerful tools used by the students to engage with media. While the students used these methods to touch on a variety of topics, they spent a great deal of time talking about the relationship between media and cultural definitions of gender and girlhood, sometimes prompted by me, but often initiated by them. In fact, the very first comment made by a student (a boy) during our first group discussion on the very first day was “I hate High School Musical because it’s girly,” after which several of the boys laughed, seemingly in agreement. Later that same hour, Zoe made a similar comment: “I don’t like Ben 10 because it’s boyish.” Then, in a side comment, another girl said, “Well, you like a lot of boy shows.” Arguably this girl was policing Zoe’s relationship to gender in a troubling way by reminding her of her tomboy status (an issue to which I return below), yet at the same time both girls were expressing an analytical attitude toward gender, both in terms

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The challenges the students raised to television’s gendering process emerged in particular during our discussion of Selena Gomez in both Wizards and as a star more generally. For example, Peter said, “I don’t really like her acting.” When I asked him why, he said, “Her acting is too girly. . . . She’s [over]acting.” Many of the girls in the classroom objected to this, drawing attention to how girls and boys evaluate representations of girls differently. Alyssa offered a very specific defense, insisting, “It’s not her. It’s what she’s supposed to be doing.” Here, Alyssa leaves an opening for a critique of “girly” acting, but she also insists the fault would lie with the producers of the show, not with the actor, Selena Gomez, of whom she seemed protective. Implicitly, here, Alyssa expresses awareness of a distinction between a media-produced star persona and the human being around whom that persona is built.32 Thus her critique is of the media’s production of gender through Gomez’s star persona, and it illustrates at least some understanding of how the celebrity system works. Importantly, this critical attitude toward media’s production of gender emerged regardless of whether an adult was present, illustrating just how important this issue was to the students. For example, during an audiotaped conversation, three girls developed a critique of false and unrealistic media femininity: sophia: You know, Hannah Montana lip-synchs. kyra: If we had a Hannah Montana show right here, and I could teleport right here, I would. sophia: She records her voice, and then she lip-synchs. ella: She lip-synchs, yeah. kyra: Yeah, she lip-synchs, but her voice is still amazing. ella: Yeah, but she lip-synchs. sophia: Barbie’s feet would be about that big.

While I have only a sound recording to work with, my guess is that Sophia gestured to a physically impossible small size when referring to Barbie’s feet, revealing a critical attitude toward the cultural production of femininity. That she closed out this debate about Hannah Montana with a comment about Barbie reveals that the critique she was making of a girl phenom lip-synching was a critique not only (or at all?) of “bad” performing but (also) of the media’s production of femininity.

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(3) a few of the students returned repeatedly to resistant and confrontational approaches to my overall goal of defining them as “media critics.” In this final section, then, I discuss these three issues in turn in order to complicate my claims about girls’ analytical engagement with media. Being Like Media Girls During some small-group discussions, I purposefully asked leading questions designed to help me disprove the Ophelia Thesis. For example: sarah: What do you do when [TV] makes you mad or you feel like it’s unfair [because of how it represents girls and boys]? sophia: I talk to the TV, I say it’s stupid, I switch the channel, I turn the TV off. Well, I usually don’t turn off the TV. kyra: I say cuss words in my head. Sometimes. ella: Yeah, me too. sarah: If you yell at [TV] or you talk to someone else about it, what kind of things do you say? girl: It’s stupid. sophia: I hate this show. It’s really irritating because it’s being unfair!

Here, the girls were clear that television offers problematic representations of girls, and they had plenty of strategies for rejecting those depictions. Thus they agreed with the Ophelia Thesis that televisual representations of girls are problematic; but they also challenged the thesis by engaging a powerful voice in response to those depictions, rather than falling into self-doubt and depression. Not all parts of our conversation were so clear-cut, however. For example, when I pursued the topic further, Zoe reported an unpleasant experience: sarah: What happens to you if you [girls] watch boys’ shows or if girls like dinosaurs or boys like sparkles? alyssa: Sometimes girls make fun of boys who kind of like girls’ stuff, and boys make fun of girls who kind of like boys’ stuff. sarah: You get made fun of?

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with girls’ everyday lives in not only gendered but also classed contexts. As a whole, however, the students did not pick up or expand on Zoe’s point about socioeconomic class and its relationship to gendered expectations in her everyday life (nor did I). To put this another way, in this exchange they (we) did not seem capable of intersectional feminist media analysis. Much to my dismay, at one moment the Ophelia Thesis assumption that media’s impossible body standards cause low self-esteem did seem to hold true. Kyra, in the following exchange, gave me pause: sarah: Do you ever feel bad if you aren’t the way the TV says you’re supposed to be? sophia: No. kyra: Sometimes, but . . . ella: Rarely. sarah: Kyra, you said sometimes. When you do feel bad, how does it make you feel bad? kyra: On some shows they make it like they have perfect hair, and I feel bad because they have perfect hair and not everyone does. But it’s not their real hair. sarah: So, you know it’s not real, and we talked [in an earlier session] about how they make the hair look perfect like that, using lighting and makeup and all that stuff, right? And yet it still makes you feel bad because not everybody has hair like that? kyra: Yeah. sarah: Do you sometimes think, “Oh, I wish I had hair like that?” kyra: Yeah. sarah: Do you ever try to change yourself to be like the perfect, not-real hair on TV? kyra: Yeah, sometimes. I try to convince my parents to go shopping with me.

During this dialogue, Kyra seems to illustrate the danger of media. She knows it is impossible to look like the girls on television, but she feels bad about herself and tries to copy them anyway. Further, she fulfills her role as a televisually produced consuming citizen in pursuit of the unattainable by pressuring her parents to take her shopping. I went home after this conversation feeling depressed. Despite their myriad

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The Racialized Body While the students discussed gender often and with relish, the same was not the case for race. Instead, when a few students brought up race, other students either did not respond or responded in a way that frustrated the original speaker. Further, none of the students’ written or creative work addressed race or racialization. This difficulty in discussing race was not caused by lack of diversity in the classroom. In fact, more than half the girls in the class were of color (five out of nine).33 And the shows the students discussed the most and drew on for their creative performances illustrate what Angharad Valdivia calls “Disney diversity”:34 Suite Life includes London Tipton, an Asian American girl portrayed by Brenda Song, and Wizards is about a mixed race Mexican/ Italian American family. There are certainly many possible reasons for the students’ not discussing race even when consuming it: for example, the fact that it is culturally acceptable to identify and discuss a person’s gender based on appearance but culturally unacceptable to discuss race in the same way could make the students reticent to bring up race; and the fact that kids’ television shows return again and again to narrative situations structured around gender but rarely address race in the same direct way might make race more invisible for the students. More to the point for this project, however, I would argue that the fact that the students seem to understand race to be primarily about skin tone and hair texture makes it more difficult for them to understand it—indeed interferes with them being able to understand it—as culturally constructed in the way they understand gender to be. For example, while planning their creative performance, a group of girls discussed which character each student could play, based on appearance. (No adult was present during this conversation.): kyra: Let’s just decide [on our characters], and whoever is most like that person will be that person. ella: You should be Maddie [a Caucasian character portrayed by Ashley Tisdale on Suite Life]. sophia: I don’t look anything like that.

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and other girls’ critique of the way that definition of race flattens out individualized differences among people. Yet, setting aside Sophia for a moment, the critique Kyra offers is based in a postracial dismissal of the debate when she says, “This isn’t about what you look like.” In short, while Sophia had as developed an analytical relationship to race as she and nearly all the other students had to gender, she was alone in her ability, willingness, and confidence to understand and critique the constructed nature of race on television and its relationship to the racism she sometimes experienced in her own life. For most students, race was a nonissue, at best articulated as a postracial colorblindness, which is particularly troubling given how analytical students were about so many other aspects of media. Resistance as Analysis While most students did their best to answer the questions I asked and to participate in the activities I set up, four girls in particular often seemed to resist me. In this section, I explore the possibility of reading their resistance both as an analytical mode of understanding media and as a way to reveal some of the limitations of this project’s investment in proving that girls are media critics. Zoe spoke often of Freddy (from A Nightmare on Elm Street) and Jason (from Friday the 13th). While, of course, I do not know her motivation, I had the feeling that she raised this issue (at least in part) to challenge me and the classroom teacher, to push the boundaries not only of what we were defining as “media” but also of what I really meant when I said, “You can write about any media you want.” Did I mean she could actually write about R-rated, violent films? The classroom teacher, in fact, picked up on Zoe’s resistance, stating openly that Zoe’s interest in Freddy and Jason made her “uncomfortable because I think you’re way more special than to be spending a lot of time dealing with that stuff.” But the teacher also went on to validate Zoe’s interest and to encourage her to figure out what she wanted to say about these characters: “But if that’s something that’s very powerful and meaningful to you and you think that it’s important to write about and you have important things to say about it, then I think it’s worth it because that’s part of who you are.”

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zoe: Because when I was watching Freddy vs. Jason there were college students, and we’re gonna say these college students are kids and they defeat Freddy but not Jason. Jason wins. And some of the kids live. leann: Some of them? zoe: Some. leann: Oh. sarah: I want to encourage you to work separately. . . . But, if you really have the same idea, go ahead and work together. leann: College Students versus Freddy and Jason. zoe: No. Freddy Krueger versus Jason versus College Students. leann: Are there going to be pictures? zoe: No, because some of the things will be too violent to write about and draw about.

In retrospect, I notice that through their creative combination of the teen/adult product of horror films and the tween product of the HSM universe, Zoe and LeAnn were (1) challenging me to live up to my claim that they could write about anything they wanted (again, Zoe reminded me that I was not supposed to want her to write about this with her final comment about violence), (2) really delighting in thinking about their favorite media, and (3) illustrating that they knew both the horror genre and the HSM universe well enough to play with it, capitalizing on the aspects of these two seemingly dissimilar genres that actually do intersect. Thus, for me, this example illustrates both that the girls were trying to confront me—to push the boundaries of the project in a way that embraced media they understood to be unequivocally bad for them—and that they were simply participating in the project with relish, drawing on their fannish experiences to imagine a new narrative that both drew and commented on the generic conventions at hand. In other words, while I was oblivious to it at the time, they revealed analytical thinking, while also implicitly showing me that they understood—and wanted to test—a cultural narrative that defined them as vulnerable in relation to at least some media. Alyssa also stood out as a resistant participant, although, like Zoe and LeAnn, she was also highly involved in the project. Over two days, the entire class spent time watching television together: advertisements on the first day and two different shows on the second day. Both days, Alyssa

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created by the shows. And, perhaps in the most resistant move, she never did lend me her notebook, even though she was clearly one of the students in the class who really enjoyed writing. Lisa, for me, is a reminder that no matter how invested I was in discovering and supporting their analytical and critical insights; no matter how careful I was to pay attention to issues of gender, race, and class; no matter how supportive I was of their various interests, the fact that I centered the media texts that were most “popular” meant that I was contributing to the ubiquity of Disney and commercialized tween culture and therefore, at least in part, I was perpetuating the way in which these media exclude. I did not provide a context, however, in which Lisa was able and/or felt comfortable expressing this—or any other—critique of the project itself. * * * In short, Sophia, Kyra, Zoe, LeAnn, Alyssa, and Lisa help me to imagine idiosyncratic analytical activities taking place beyond the more typical categories of analysis I found (i.e., details as evidence; understanding of narrative, gender, and the star system as structure; questioning media; creating new media; and challenging gendered representation). But also, in retrospect, they help me to see some of the limitations in the project: the way the structure I set up did not encourage critical attention to mediated racialization or to social and economic class; my lack of attention to the relationship between media and some girls’ commodity consumption; the lack of space for the pleasure some girls take in media violence; and, perhaps most challenging to me as an individual, my surprise that even girls who made clear their “analytical abilities” in other contexts at certain points would refuse to engage me and perhaps even disliked the media project. These complications, then, both reveal the depth and complexity of the girls’ analytical thinking and remind me that that thinking belongs to them and not to me.

Conclusion The Ophelia Thesis includes two major anxieties about girls and media: (1) media push a hyper-sexuality that is damaging for girls, and (2) by setting up impossible expectations, media decrease girls’ self-esteem.

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insightful about the addiction of Disney, the strength of emotion, and issues of power and control. Further, I want to highlight the particularly nuanced perspective the students had on media depictions of girls and gender. Based on all these girls’ (and boys’) analytical activities, I would argue, any media literacy research or program that wants to “work with” or “help” or “empower” girls in relation to media has to start with the assumption that girls are already media critics who can set the terms of the conversation in ways that—rather than necessarily disprove the Ophelia Thesis—make it beside the point. Finally, most important to this book overall, I would argue that this chapter adds to the many alternative girls in media culture that I discuss in previous chapters. Who are the alternative girls in this chapter? They are non-gender-specific girls who engage in media analysis using the same basic skills and strategies as do non-gender-specific boys. They are girls who have the analytical capacity to grasp the complexity of a text through their attention to detail, insatiable questions, and creative play. They are girls who know television femininity is constructed, and who sometimes use that knowledge to reflect on how they can build a career. They are girls who find racism in the media and among their friends untenable. They are girls who find a variety of ways to resist the demands of their visiting teacher. In short, these girls are media critics who use their specific analytical abilities to articulate persuasive insights about both media structure and gender representation.

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Conclusion Girlhood Rethought corbi: So, what, are you, like, alternative now? bliss: Alternative to what? —Whip It (2009)

As I sat in the lobby of a Melbourne, Australia, airport hotel, trying to put the finishing touches on this conclusion, news of the horrific shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, played almost continuously on the television over the bar. While I tried to tune out the sound, as well as my own pain about the deaths and my aching desire to see and touch my own children, the image of a beautiful young girl with strawberry blonde hair and freckles flashed across the television screen. She sat with her mother, speaking to an interviewer about having survived. She smiled a bit as her mother looked on with what seemed to be love, pride, and gratitude. I couldn’t help but wonder, “Why this girl?” Why do we have to imagine the horror of the shooting through the image of this beautiful little blonde girl who survived? Days later, back home in Salt Lake City, Utah, while trying to enjoy a rare lunch with my father who was on his annual winter-break visit, the photo on the cover of the local newspaper sitting on the table next to us caught my attention: a lovely blonde girl smiled up at the camera (and me). The caption informed me that this was one of the children killed in Newtown. I wondered, “Didn’t boys also die in this tragic event?” “Didn’t adults die?” Why, again, did the image of a little blonde-white girl have to manage our care about Newtown?1 >> 217

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them. Ambiguously ethnic mixed race girls, antiracist girls, feminist girls, black girls who are girls, can-do African American girls, sexual girls, girls who express productive and rational anger, girl media critics, queer girls, girls who take up social space, masculine girls, girls who make choices, girls who fly, girls who know that media construct femininity in ways that are impossible for a human body to achieve, girls who read television shows through minute details rather than focusing on a predictable “don’t be a mean girl” morality, girls who fantasize about the power of their voice to break glass, girls who discuss and think about abortion, girls who take pleasure in the movement of their own bodies, girls who cross gender borders, and girls who stand up to violent men (sometimes escaping and sometimes dying). These alternative girls are at the heart of this book, at the center of my definition of spectacular girls, and the basis on which I construct my feminist girls’ media studies methodology. Admittedly, defining certain girls as alternative to a dominant runs the risk of producing a binary that reifies the dominance of the dominant. As Isaac Julien and Kobena Mercer argue, “The explanatory concept of ‘otherness’ distances and particularises ethnicity as something that happens far away.”3 To claim the status of “alternative” or “other” has the potential to reinscribe both center and periphery—thereby reproducing static, arbitrary, and discrete lines of difference outside time and place—rather than to challenge the logic that produces that philosophical polarization. Nonetheless, I take the risk of identifying “dominant” and “alternative” because I consider it crucial to document empirically the high frequency of white heteronormativity in U.S. media representations of girls. The inescapability of media representations of little blonde-white girls as the girls who matter is a form of dominance. As I show in chapter 2, by cataloging every girl to appear on the cover of Time, Newsweek, and People since 1990, not only are these girls everywhere in the mediascape, but when they appear in ways we cannot escape—such as on magazine covers at the checkout stand (and hotel bar televisions)—we have no choice but to give them our attention, even if only fleetingly or subconsciously. This is a dominance that requires critique. In other words, if I must give these media girls my attention, I will do so by acknowledging their existence: in fact, by documenting their statistical dominance; but I will also challenge

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the kinds of things children think and say about the media they continuously encounter. Thus I am not only turning away from dominant media that have the capacity to invade our everyday lives and demand our attention, but I am also thinking through the complexity of a variety of media forms (including dominant media), as well as the particularities of how some girls actually interact with media. In order for this book to make an argument about girls in U.S. media culture, then, I insist on looking at as large a mediascape as possible in as much detail and with as much specificity as possible. Third, having used both a critical feminist lens and multiple media resources to locate alternative girls, the feminist girls’ media studies methodology I employ in this book insists on centering these other girls. While acknowledging that they are not empirically the girls who appear most often in the contemporary U.S. mediascape, nevertheless I insist that these other (as in, other-than) girls are not “marginal”; they are not girls hovering at the side. The feminist analytical methods I use in this book make clear that, in fact, these girls are also spectacular and spectacularized. Thus, just as I resistantly document the dominance of white heteronormative girls, I also seek out, substantiate, suggest the importance of, and give serious analytical attention to the many other versions of girlhood that exist within media and celebrity culture. In short, the argument of this book is that feminist girls’ media studies— and by extension all media studies—can and should not only examine the center but, more important, also reframe what we talk about and how we do so, thereby redefining the center of U.S. media culture itself. Of course, many of the alternative girlhoods I discuss in this book are not ideal from an antiracist, queer, feminist perspective. I am not in pursuit of “better” representations. Rather, I emphasize that all the representations I discuss in this book are part of the discursive production and spectacularization of cultural knowledge about and understandings of girlhood. Representations of girls often reinscribe, for example, long-standing understandings of African Americans as necessarily poor (Gunn, Venus, Precious), unless they have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps (Venus, Sidibe), and race as only skin deep and therefore easily put on or taken off (Gomez, Precious as universal). They also reinscribe the young white girl as profoundly innocent (Olive) and all girls as inevitably heterosexual (Gomez, Hudgens).

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Further, the most mass-mediated versions of girlhood and the public policies linked to those representations get in the way of being able to see other ways of making sense of and imagining girlhood. I am not opposed to creating protective structures for girls or to challenging the marketing of sexualized products and ideas to tweens. What I am opposed to is a simplistic, undifferentiated, and totalizing vision of girlhood that is limited to a neoliberal protectionist stance that writes out of existence—both in how we see media representations and in how we see the actual girls in our everyday lives—girls who are not white, not heterosexual, not vulnerable, and/or not passive. By writing this book, I hope to illustrate that—while the white, heteronormative, can-do/atrisk girl is everywhere—if we choose both to look at her differently and to look away, we can see alternative girlhoods, we can begin to move dominant mediated girlhoods out of our way and thereby imagine new ways of interacting with girls. How might seeing these alternative girls lead to different ways of regulating and interacting with girls? How might utilizing the antiracist, queer, feminist perspective I conceptualize here lead to new ways of conceiving of girls within education, the economy, and legislation? And how might new ways of conceiving of girls in these contexts then lead to new cultural narratives and media representations? Certainly, I would be delighted for this academic book to intervene in and alter these mass-mediated representations of girls—to reach far enough for media makers, parents, doctors, teachers, coaches, and legislators to find it, read it, reflect on it, and then rethink their approaches to girls. Thinking about mediated and spectacular girls in the ways I do in this book could embolden educators to change school reading lists to be intersectional rather than simply inclusive, and to create after-school programs for both girls’ media analysis and girls’ media production; and it could challenge legislators and social workers to stop using regulation and surveillance to protect girls from a version of themselves that for most exists more in the mediascape than in their everyday lives. This book could provide parents with new narratives with which to make sense of their children, and thereby new ways of helping those children navigate their social and interior lives; and it could confront media makers with some of the consequences of their work, encouraging them to think carefully about how they might want to represent and narrate girls in the future.

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suggesting here as possible future research, then, is a feminist (girls’) media studies approach deeply involved in questioning the relationship between media and social life in a way that places gender, age, race, and sexuality at the center. I suspect that U.S. media fascination with girls is going to continue to grow, at least in the short term. In addition to the ready availability of the little blonde-white girl for media to make sense of the Newtown tragedy, think, for example, of the fact that girls now have the capacity to carry media franchises in a way they have not since the early 1950s when, as Mary Celeste Kearney shows, “meta-properties,” such as Meet Corliss Archer and A Date with Judy, helped shape the structure of the increasingly synergistic media industries.5 Today (depending on how one counts) girls anchor three of the top twelve film franchises: Twilight, The Hunger Games, and Disney animated princess/girl films.6 As of this writing, all three of these franchises continue to grow: formeractual-girl and current-girlish celebrities Kristen Stewart and Jennifer Lawrence frequently appear on the cover of magazines, as the subjects of blogs, and on television talk shows and celebrity news; three more Hunger Games films are scheduled; and Disney continues to grow its princess line, with the Princess Fairytale Hall scheduled to open at Disney World in 2013 and future animated girl films in the planning stages.7 And more girl franchises are on the rise; for example, filming of Divergent, based on the first novel in Veronica Roth’s successful trilogy (the third novel of which has not yet even been released), began in April 2013.8 Girls also continue to anchor celebrity culture. Even as Newsweek ceased physical publication in the United States in 2012, celebrity gossip magazines are thriving.9 While girls are not the only celebrities to appear in these magazines, I was recently reminded of the way girlhood clings to former teen celebrities such as Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez, Jennifer Lawrence, and even thirty-one-yearold Britney Spears when they all appeared on the covers of December 2012 mass-market magazines. As the accompanying figure shows, my local 7-Eleven store displayed all these celebrities together (along with Oprah). While these young women are no longer girls, arguably their current success depends on their former spectacularized girlhood and thereby reminds us of the importance of girlhood to the functioning and continuation of celebrity culture.10

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and the Media”; Mazzarella and Pecora, “Revisiting Girls’ Studies”; Mendes and Silva, “Girls, Boys, and ‘Girlhood’ Studies.” Gilligan, In a Different Voice. Brown, “‘Girls’ in Girls’ Studies,” 2. See Pipher, Reviving Ophelia, 35. McRobbie, Feminism and Youth Culture. Kearney lists most of the examples I include here in “Coalescing,” but I also mention some additional examples that have emerged since she published her essay. Signs 23.3 (1998), Feminist Collections 28.3 and 28.4 (2007), and Networking Knowledge 5.1 (2012). “Global Girls Studies: Media and Pedagogical Approaches,” May 26, 2009, University of Illinois; “After Girl Power: What’s Next?” February 24–25, 2012, University of York. The International Girls Studies Association, the National Women’s Studies Association Girls’ Studies Interest Group, and the Midwest Popular Culture Association/American Culture Association Area Chair. The University of Missouri–Kansas City’s Undergraduate Certificate, and the Appalachian State University Girls’ Studies Undergraduate Minor. Lipkin, Girls’ Studies. Zaslow, Feminism, Inc. For example, see Wilcox and Lavery, Fighting the Forces. For example, see Currie, Girl Talk. For example, see Kearney, Girls Make Media. Durham, “Constructing the ‘New Ethnicities.” See also Chin, Purchasing Power; Kenny, Daughters of Suburbia; Maira, Desis in the House; Pillow, Unfit Subjects; Silverstein, Girls on the Stand. Valdivia, “Latina Girls and Communication Studies.” Bejarano, ¿Qué Onda?; Beltrán, “Más Macha”; Fregoso, “Homegirls, Cholas, and Pachucas in Cinema”; Mayer, Producing Dreams, Consuming Youth; Tapia, “Impregnating Images.” Shohat, Taboo Memories, Diasporic Voices. For an excellent collection of essays exploring the history of girls, see FormanBrunell and Paris’s two volumes of The Girls’ History and Culture Reader, one on the nineteenth century and one on the twentieth. Mitchell and Reid-Walsh, “Theorizing Tween Culture within Girlhood Studies,” 9. In this introduction to their anthology Seven Going on Seventeen, Mitchell and Reid-Walsh offer a concise history of shifts in public understandings of “girl,” up through the most recent emergence of the concept of “tween.” Savage, Teenage. Schrum, Some Wore Bobby Sox. See Cook and Kaiser, “Betwixt and Be Tween”; Mitchell and Reid-Walsh, “Theorizing Tween Culture within Girlhood Studies.” Faris, “Betwixt and Between.”

230 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88.

> 231

structure of the Hollywood industry during the studio era, I am unable to draw on her work as much as I would like to here because her book was published after Spectacular Girls went to press. I do, however, address an earlier essay by Studlar in my discussion of Mary Pickford, below. deCordova, Picture Personalities. See Fischer and Landy, “General Introduction”; Chisholm, “Missing Persons and Bodies of Evidence,” 149n1. See also Staiger, “Seeing Stars.” Kenaga, “Making the ‘Studio Girl.’” Ibid., 132. deCordova mentions in passing that many of the “picture personalities” were girls in their teens, but he does not mention any names (Picture Personalities, 51). His evidence does not support this claim, however; thus it is possible that this is an uncharacteristic moment in his book where he accepts the standard historical narrative as fact (i.e., “many movie-struck girls flocked to Hollywood as teenagers in hopes of becoming stars”) rather than examine the source and veracity of that narrative. Of the many names of female picture personalities and stars he does mention in the book, based on dates provided at IMDb.com, only Mary Pickford and Blanche Sweet made more than one or two films before the age of twenty. Mignon Anderson made several films when she was eighteen and nineteen. All the other women he mentions were at least twenty when they became picture personalities or stars. Cary, Whatever Happened to Baby Peggy? Balio, Grand Design, 146. Eckert, “Shirley Temple and the House of Rockefeller,” 185. See also Fuller-Seeley, “Shirley Temple,” 44. Negra, Off-White Hollywood, 19, 20. See Hatch, “Fille Fatale”; Kincaid, “Hannah Montana’s Bare, Unprotected Back”; Nash, American Sweethearts. Dyer, Heavenly Bodies, 159. Ibid., 170. Dyer, Stars. Gledhill, “Signs of Melodrama,” 220. Tibbetts, “Mary Pickford and the American ‘Growing Girl,’” 51, 55. Studlar, “Oh, ‘Doll Devine,’” 210, 209. In their introduction to Stars, Fischer and Landy also discuss Mae Murray as an early star connected to “childishness,” even when she herself was an adult (5). IMDb.com lists Murray’s date of birth as 1889 and her first film as 1916, placing her at either twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age when she entered the star system. Scheiner, Signifying Female Adolescence, 5. Nash, “Saluting Virgins.” Shary, Teen Movies.

232 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44.

45. 46.

47. 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55.

56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63.

> 233

these shows on IMDb.com or TV.com. Further, she is the only member of the Paper Moon cast for which Wikipedia provides no entry (http://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Paper_Moon_(film), accessed May 23, 2013). For more on the displacement of racism in historical texts, see Ono, “Mad Men’s Postracial Figuration of a Racial Past”; Projansky, Watching Rape. James Snead briefly develops a similar comparison in his discussion of Shirley Temple and the African American character of Sally Ann in The Littlest Rebel. See White Screens, Black Images, 60. Mulvey, “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” Obviously, male stars also signify to-be-looked-at-ness, and much excellent work has complicated and challenged Mulvey’s rigid gender binary (e.g., see Dyer, White; Tasker Spectacular Bodies). That said, the female star (whether child or adult) can still be said to have a more heightened sexualized to-be-looked-at-ness quality than do male stars, in general. For an extended discussion of the child star, albeit one that does not address gender and girl stars in particular, see O’Connor, Cultural Significance of the Child Star. At the recent Celebrity Studies Inaugural Conference, Jodi Brooks initiated a provocative discussion of “Performing Children, Ideas of Film Time, and the Untimely Remains of the Child Star.” “Ryan’s Daughter.” Davis, “American Woman in the Movies.” For example, see Blum, “The Real Love Story”; Wade, “As Tatum Turns Ten.” “Ryan’s Daughter.” Hatch, “Little Butches.” “Ryan’s Daughter.” Klemesrud, “Tatum and Ryan,” 36. “Ryan’s Daughter.” Klemesrud, “Tatum and Ryan,” 36. “Ryan’s Daughter.” Blum, “Real Love Story,” 100. Klemesrud, “Tatum and Ryan,” 13. Blum, “Real Love Story,” 63. Ibid. Ibid., 100. Wade, “As Tatum Turns Ten,” 28. Blum, “Real Love Story,” 62. Ibid., 98. Ibid., 100. Hatch, “Fille Fatale.” Haskell, “Tatum O’Neal and Jodie Foster,” 49. Ibid., 50. Hatch, “Fille Fatale,” 170.

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Ibid., 247. July 27, 1992. August 10, 1992. June 3, 2002. October 30, 2000. For a detailed study of recent newspaper coverage of early puberty girls, see Mazzarella, “Coming of Age Too Soon.” Time, April 29, 1996. Newsweek, July 15, 1991. People, October 1, 2001. People, September 26, 2011. Newsweek, December 5, 2005. Time, June 21, 1993. Time, August 27, 2001. Time, June 28, 1993. Newsweek, May 8, 2006. Newsweek, May 29, 1995. Time, June 23, 2003. On white blondeness, see Dyer, Heavenly Bodies; Redmond, “Whiteness of Stars”; and chapter 1 of this book. Wanzo, “Era of Lost (White) Girls.” See also Walkerdine, Daddy’s Girl. Rae Lynn Schwartz-DePre argues that “National Geographic’s 1985 . . . Afghan Girl is a dominant discourse . . . that is produced by, produces, and reproduces colonial narratives of rescue.” See “Portraying the Political,” 337. Admittedly, this is at least in part a discourse of protection of the girl of color, but here specifically from the supposed evils of Afghan men. I address the issue of generic ethnic girls more fully later in the chapter. For more on this argument, see Projansky, “Mass Magazine Cover Girls.” August 31, 1998. July 20, 1992, and February 15, 1999. June 18, 2001. August 4, 2008, and November 24, 2008. The first time the Obama girls appeared on People their father was still a presidential candidate. June 1, 2009. June 18, 2001. August 4, 2008. November 24, 2008. Westfall, “The Obamas Get Personal.” Smolowe et al., “The Obamas’ To-Do List.” Westfall, “Obamas Get Personal,” 52. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid., 56.

236 48. 49. 50. 51. 52. 53. 54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71. 72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82.

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83. July 27, 2007. Ashley Tisdale and Monique Coleman were in their twenties at the 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103.

104.

105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110.

time of the cover, but their characters are teens. September 3, 2007. May 5, 2008. August 6, 2008. November 5, 2008. May 20, 2009. Brenda Song was twenty-one years old at the time of the cover, but her character is in high school. July 22, 2009. August 10, 2009. October 14, 2009. November 4, 2009. November 16, 2011. While Stewart was twenty-one years old at the time of the cover, her character is a teen. March 26, 2012. While Lawrence was twenty-one years old at the time of the cover, her character is a teen. March 28, 2012. July 2, 2007. This cover appeared before the public fight that erupted in February 2011 between Miley and her father, country singer Billy Ray Cyrus. May 5, 2008. July 5, 2004. December 20, 2004. March 28, 1991. May 24, 1999. June 11, 2007. I base this claim on reviews of Wikipedia, IMDb.com biographies, and general web searches pairing “ethnicity” with each star’s name. The EthniCelebs.com site often popped up, detailing various rumors and attempting to uncover stars’ “real” ethnicity. A few additional stars on these covers, such as Demi Lovato, Miranda Cosgrove, and Shannen Doherty, are sometimes rumored to be mixed race Latina or Asian American: in other words, they sometimes function as “ethnically ambiguous,” much like actors who are mixed Asian American or Latina but whose characters often are not, such as Kristin Kreuk and Jessica Alba. See Valdivia, “Mixed Race on the Disney Channel.” Beltrán, Latina/o Stars in U.S. Eyes, 7. Ibid., 273. “From Texas to Hollywood,” 17. Gomez, quoted in “The Princess Diary,” 38. Lovato, quoted in “Demi and Selena’s BFF Handbook.” Ironically, within only a few weeks of this magazine’s release nude photos of Hudgens appeared on the Internet, and scandal broke. As is typical, she apologized, and Disney kept her in the fold, including her in the cast of High School Musical 3.

238 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116.

117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125.

126. 127.

128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139.

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140. October 19, 2009. Although Smart was twenty-one years old at the time, the 141. 142. 143. 144. 145.

146. 147. 148. 149. 150. 151. 152. 153. 154. 155. 156. 157. 158. 159. 160. 161. 162. 163. 164.

165. 166. 167. 168. 169. 170.

cover refers back to her kidnapping as a child. June 23, 2008. March 31, 2003; November 3, 2003. March 23, 2003. July 18, 2011. I base the claim that Marris is Latina on both her dark hair and olive skin (as it appears on the magazine cover), and her grandmother’s name, as reported in People (Theresa Monares). August 19, 2002. People, December 20, 1993. People, May 28, 2007; September 24, 2007; October 15, 2007. She remains unfound as of April 2013. People, October 31, 2011. People, June 3, 2002. March 29, 1999. When Shah found the girls over a year later and kidnapped them back, Time published an article, “He Found His Girls” (Lopez), but did not do another cover. May 11, 1998. January 20, 1997; March 24, 1997; October 6, 1997; December 14, 1998; September 4, 2006. January 20, 1997; February 22, 1999. For an excellent analysis of media coverage of Ramsey, see Conrad, “Lost Innocence and Sacrificial Delegate.” August 11, 2008; October 27, 2008; February 9, 2009; June 13, 2011; July 4, 2011. People did not run a cover story when Casey Anthony was acquitted. People, August 27, 1990. October 21, 1996. April 26, 2010. December 11, 1995. April 22, 1996. April 29, 1996. See Wanzo, “Abduction Will Not Be Televised,” for a comparison of the massive media coverage of Elizabeth Smart to the almost complete lack of coverage of Alexis Patterson, an African American girl who disappeared around the same time. I make this claim based on her appearance in the photographs published by Time. Van Biema and Epperson, “Elisa Izquierdo,” 36. Henry L. Kaiser Family Foundation, “Poverty Rate by Race/Ethnicity.” Wanzo, “Abduction Will Not Be Televised,” 192. For a development of the idea of lack of pathos for girls of color, see Roberts, Killing the Black Body. Lopez, “Hide and Seek,” 66.

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List, “Monster Mash, Van Helsing.” Powers and Steiker, “On the Bright Side.” Brunson, “It’s All Relative.” Cooper, “Trapped,” 22. Dargis, “Little Miss Sunshine.” Schechner, “Weekend Adviser.” Cooper, “Trapped,” 21. Leon, “The Family that Plays Together.” Ansen, “A Busload of Losers.” Chocano, “Little Miss Sunshine.” Stein, “Everybody in the Van.” Frey, “Little Miss Sunshine.” Olszewski, “Bringing Up Maybe.” “Ellen Page: Juno.” Green, “Juno.” All Things Considered, December 7, 2007. “In Theaters This Weekend.” All Things Considered, November 23, 2007. Green, “Juno.” Brunson, “Juno.” Valby, “Diablo Cody.” Cage, “Precious Not a Typical Movie Experience.” See also Durbin, “Dazzling Performances to Gild the Resumes.” Musto, “A Precious Mo’Nique Makes It Big.” Roberts, “Lee Daniels’s Pursuit of the Perfect ‘Precious.’” Daniels makes explicit that he wanted to hire someone eighteen or older so that he would not have to contend with child labor laws and so that the actor would be prepared to deal with the R-rated nature of the film. See Verini and Hofler, “Screen Team Spirit.” Fresh Air. Lamble, “When Push Comes to Shove”; Williams, “Gabby Sidibe.” Roberts, “Lee Daniels’s Pursuit of the Perfect ‘Precious.’” Ebert, “Fest Winner Precious on the Oscar Fast Track.” See also Wloszczyna, “Women of Precious Movie Undertake Transformational Roles.” Hu, “A Dapper, Dynamic Opener.” Saleh, “Cinderella Story.” Wloszczyna, “Transformational Precious.” Ebert, “Precious Opportunity.” Ebert, “Beaten Down by a Cruel Fate.” Irwin, “Gabourey Sidibe Is Sweet but Not Precious.” “The Bullseye.” Karger, “Gabourey Sidibe.” Breznican, “Nominees Get into Good Spirits Early.”

242 49. 50. 51. 52. 53.

54. 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69. 70. 71.

72. 73. 74. 75. 76. 77. 78. 79. 80. 81. 82. 83.

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84. November 4, 2009. 85. Daniels: Fresh Air; Mo’Nique and Perry: All Things Considered, March 8, 2010; 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107.

108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

Winfrey: Graham, “Sentinel Was on the Red Carpet.” February 2, 2010. Cohen, “Oscar Buzz for Juno.” Schwarzbaum, “Knocked Up.” Haines et al., “Juno,” 70, 71, 72. Also see the letter to the editor in Gage, “From Our Readers,” for a scathing critique of the film from a feminist perspective. Klingener, “They Kept It at the Movies.” Yabroff, “Special Delivery.” Sperling, “Juno Has Moviegoers Bringing Up Babies,” 11. “Much Anticipated Precious Premieres in Hollywood.” Fresh Air. Hornaday, “How Mo’Nique Created a Monster.” Sherman, “Not So Precious Moments.” Morris, “Precious.” Kiefer and Johanson, “Push Comes to Shove”; “Snoop Wants Oprah’s Job.” Sunday Morning. Lee, “Precious Spawns Racial Debate.” Bournea, “Will the Movie Precious Take Home Oscar Gold?” Geraghty, “Approaching Stars Sideways.” Gonick, “‘Mean Girl’ Crisis,” 395. Hoff, “Mean Girls.” The Today Show, April 23, 2004. The Early Show, April 26, 2004. Interestingly, even though Cady’s friends Janis and Damien are actually also quite mean in the film, reviews never define them as such, although they do sometimes read them as “gay.” Thus, again, meanness is heteronormative. See “Queer Kids vs. Mean Girls.” Roz Kaveney interprets Regina, the Queen Bee, more literally as queer at the end of the film, where she appears playing lacrosse. See Teen Dreams, 101. Springer, “Queering Black Female Heterosexuality.” Kennedy, “Nice White Girls in/from Africa,” ¶ 5. See also Hentges, Pictures of Girlhood, 21–23. Powers and Steiker, “On the Bright Side.” Puig, “Six Movies for the Grown-up Palate.” Ansen, “Busload of Losers.” Puig, “Sunshine Beams, but Darkly.” Lemire, “Little Miss Sunshine,” E30. Chocano, “Little Miss Sunshine.” Wallenberg, “Ray of Light from a Clan of Losers.” Ridley, “Ain’t No Sunshine.” Goldenberg, “Lovable Losers.”

244 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129.

130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135.

136. 137. 138. 139.

140. 141. 142. 143. 144.

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Notes to Chapter 4 1. In order to keep my source material to a manageable size, I focus on the

2. 3.

4. 5.

6.

7. 8.

9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17.

four “grand slams” or “majors”: the Australian Open (played in January), the French Open (May/June), Wimbledon (June/July), and the U.S. Open (August/ September). September 15, 1997. While there was plenty of discussion in 1996 of Hingis’s youth and the fact that she was continually setting “youngest ever” records that year, it was not until 1997 that the press and television coverage began talking about the teen queens of tennis as a group and on a regular basis. Hence, I begin my analysis in 1997. In 2010, Kournikova became a U.S. citizen. Because I discuss four different members of the Williams family in this chapter—Venus, her sister Serena, her father Richard, and her mother Oracene—I refer to them by their first names to avoid confusion. For scholarship that focuses more on these players as adults, see Harris and Clayton, “Femininity, Masculinity, Physicality and the English Tabloid Press” (Kournikova); Giardina, “Global Hingis”; Schultz, “Reading the Catsuit” (Serena); Hills and Kennedy, “Space Invaders at Wimbledon” (Venus); Douglas, “Venus, Serena, and the Women’s Tennis Association”; Ifekwunigwe, “Venus and Serena Are ‘Doing It’ for Themselves”; Spencer, “Sister Act VI.” See the ad on YouTube: “Nike ad: If You Let Me Play (1995),” http://www.youtube .com/watch?v=AQ_XSHpIbZE (accessed May 23, 2013). She was also raised and coached by her mother. Media coverage, however, overwhelmingly represents her father as the family orchestrator. I develop a fuller analysis of the representation of the Williams family later in the chapter. Shriver, 1998 Australian Open. Drysdale, 1998 Australian Open. Shriver, 1998 Australian Open. Ibid. Holcomb, “Dream Teens.” Holcomb, “Teens Spice of Women’s Tennis.” Shriver, 1998 Australian Open. In fact, all but Lučić were included in and Hingis was featured on the cover of a book for children published that September: Rachel Routledge’s The Best of the Best in Tennis. On Mauresmo’s media visibility, see Forman and Plymire, “Amélie Mauresmo’s Muscles.” In addition to these teenage players, several other teenage players, ages fifteen through seventeen, broke through and ended 1999 ranked in the top one hundred: Kim Clijsters, who played the last two majors at age sixteen and ended the year ranked forty-seventh; Elena Dementieva, who played all four majors at age seventeen and ended the year ranked sixty-second; Jelena Dokić, who turned sixteen and ended the year ranked forty-third; and Justine Henin, who turned seventeen and ended the year ranked sixty-ninth.

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52. 1997 French Open. 53. See Spencer, “Sister Act VI,” 122–123, for a reading of commentary on the beads

as negative. 54. She does, in fact, end up losing a point at the 1999 Australian Open as a result 55. 56. 57. 58. 59. 60. 61. 62. 63. 64. 65. 66.

of her beads. More on this below. Austin, 1997 French Open. 1997 U.S. Open. Deford, 1997 Wimbledon. Drysdale, 1998 Australian Open. Austin, 1997 French Open; Carillo, 1997 Wimbledon. It is clear that she used the word “fucking,” based on both the slight “f ” sound that one can hear before the bleep and the shape of her lips as she speaks. See Collins, Black Feminist Thought. Finn, “Denials of Racism.” Spencer also analyses some of this material in “From ‘Child’s Play’ to ‘Party Crasher,’” 97–98. Garrison and McNeil were the two most recent high-ranking African American female tennis players prior to Venus and Serena Williams. Araton, “Talking about the Country Club.” As I discuss in chapter 3, this is akin to the way in which commentators love to love Sidibe’s large black body. I believe Venus is wrong on this point. In fact, the rule that the umpire followed at the 1999 Australian Open was the same as the rule reported by the press during Wimbledon in 1997.

Notes to Chapter 5 1. I use a slash to combine the various terms the collective coverage used to

2. 3.

4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11.

describe the same thing. All the facts reported in this paragraph are based on the collective media coverage of the case. Rostow, “Thousands Rally for Murdered Lesbian, Sakia Gunn.” A search of the PFLAG website returns no results for “Sakia Gunn.” The list of PFLAG chapters does not currently include a Newark chapter, and the list of both national and local scholarships does not include the Sakia Gunn scholarship. As far as I can tell based on all my research, the scholarship was awarded only once. See http://community.pflag.org/Page.aspx?pid=194&srcid=-2 (accessed December 15, 2012). Parry, “Suspect Held in Killing of Gay Teen.” Hull, “Newark Man Pleads Guilty to Killing Lesbian in 2003.” Fogg-Davis, “Theorizing Black Lesbians within Black Feminism,” ¶ 2. See also Wanzo, Suffering Will Not Be Televised. Ono and Sloop, “Critique of Vernacular Discourse.” Banet-Weiser, “Branding the Post-feminist Self.” June 6, 2003. June 13, 2003. “The Nominees.”

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Smothers, “Man Charged with Bias Crime for Girl’s Killing in Newark.” Hull, “Newark Man Pleads Guilty to Killing Lesbian in 2003.” Smothers, “Man Arrested in the Killing of a Teenager in Newark.” “Gay Teen’s Slaying Raises a Host of Issues, Worries.” Carter, “Girl’s Killing Probed as Anti-gay Crime.” El-Ghobashy, “Suspect Surrenders in Slaying of Lesbian, 15.” Spence, “NJ Lesbian, 15, Murdered.” Kleinknecht, “Man Admits to Reduced Charge in Death of Lesbian Teen.” “Accused Killer Waives Court Appearance.” See Fogg-Davis, “Theorizing Black Lesbians within Black Feminism.” Hull, “Young and Gay in Real America,” A10. I return to this issue below in relation to coverage that makes a connection between Gunn and the “Newark Four,” a group of lesbians who were convicted of “gang violence” for attacking/defending-themselves-against a man who approached them both sexually and with homophobic comments. Smothers, “Teenage Girl Fatally Stabbed at Bus Stop in Newark.” “Gay Teen’s Slaying Raises a Host of Issues, Worries.” Carter, “Girl’s Killing Probed as Anti-gay Crime.” Ibid. Heyboer, “Scholarship Established in Slain Lesbian’s Name.” Carter, “Cries for Justice.” Kleinknecht, “Lesbian Teen’s Family Confronts Killer.” Carter, “Bias Crime Suspect Sought.” Strunsky, “Newark Teen’s Stabbing Death Spurs Call for Gay, Lesbian Community Center.” Johnson, “Gay Life Easier for Teens but Still Risky for Some.” Fiore, “Day of Remembrance for Gender-Bias Victims.” Strunsky, “Newark Teen’s Stabbing Death Spurs Call for Gay, Lesbian Community Center.” El-Ghobashy, “Suspect Surrenders in Slaying of Lesbian,”15. Kleinknecht, “Newark Stabbing Spurs Rare Bias Homicide Charges.” Hoppe, “Sakia Gunn.” Newman-Wagner, “An Unnecessary Loss of Life.” Heyboer, “Scholarship Established in Slain Lesbian’s Name.” DuLong, “A Movement Grows in Newark.” Newman-Wagner, “An Unnecessary Loss of Life.” Ibid. See also Bishop, “Guest Opinion.” Stockman, “July 4th Assault on Woman Eyed as Antigay Hate Crime.” Williams, “MSU Activist Turns On-line Petition into LGBT Scholarship.” “Local Briefs.” Bishop, “Guest Opinion,” 21. Carter, “Gay Rights Activists March for Newark Mayor’s Attention.” Ibid.

250 82. 83. 84. 85. 86. 87. 88. 89. 90. 91. 92. 93. 94. 95. 96. 97. 98. 99. 100. 101. 102. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119.

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120. Peet, “Lesbians in Assault to Appeal their Terms.” 121. See also chapter 6 of Isoke, Urban Black Women and the Politics of Resistance,

which focuses on Sakia Gunn. This book was released in January 2013, too recently for me to include it in my analysis here. 122. Zook, “Lover,” 32, 33, 45.

Notes to Chapter 6 1. Orenstein, Cinderella Ate My Daughter; Hartstein, Princess Recovery. 2. Livingstone, “Engaging with Media,” 51. 3. For discussions of the history and politics of cultural studies, see Nelson and

4.

5.

6. 7. 8. 9.

10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17.

Gaonkar, Disciplinarity and Dissent; and McRobbie, Feminism and Youth Culture. I discuss some of this work in more detail below. See Livingstone, “Do the Media Harm Children?” 5, for a cogent discussion of the need to think across “media are to blame” and “children enjoy media” arguments. See Bignell, “Writing the Child in Media Theory,” for a discussion of the discursive figure of the child and its relationship to media self-regulation and policy. Buckingham, “Going Critical,” 144. For discussions of girls’ complex interactions with media, see Chin, Purchasing Power; Kenny, Daughters of Suburbia; and Maira, Desis in the House. I want to thank the classroom teacher for clarifying why she encouraged the students to avoid saying or being “critical.” Brown, Black Girlhood Celebration, 112. Ibid.; Gonick, “Between Girl Power and Reviving Ophelia”; Hasinoff, “No Right to Sext?”; Projansky, “Girls Who Act Like Women Who Fly.” The only dark-haired girl appears on Queen Bees and Wannabes. She is in the foreground, looking unhappy, while three blonde girls laugh and whisper in the background. For a related discussion of the production of the vulnerable white girl in need of protection, see Godfrey, “Sweet Little (White) Girls?”; Projansky, “Mass Magazine Cover Girls”; and chapter 2 of this book. Götz, “Girls and Boys and Television.” Durham, “Adolescents, the Internet, and the Politics of Gender”; “Articulating Adolescent Girls’ Resistance”; and “Constructing the ‘New Ethnicities.’” Durham, Lolita Effect, 23, 22. There used to be a website with the title “Postfeminist Playground”; it is now defunct. See Projansky, Watching Rape. Durham critiques Jennifer Baumgardner for making this very argument. See Durham, Lolita Effect, 23. For a recent literature review that reports on both positive and negative media effects, see Strasburger, Jordan, and Donnerstein, “Health Effect of Media.” Gentles and Harrison, “Television and Perceived Peer Expectations”; Harrison, “Body Electric.” See Sweeney, Maiden USA.

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36. In order to protect anonymity, I have replaced some of the students’ specific

comments about race and skin tone with more generic terms such as “body” or “people of color.” 37. Note that this is Kyra who wants to portray a boy, the same girl who expressed a desire to be like media girls (such as Selena Gomez). Clearly, Kyra’s relationship to gender is fluid and complex. 38. Levin and Kilbourne, So Sexy, So Soon, 4.

Notes to the Conclusion 1. The cover of the December 2012 issue of People shows all the victims. As I sus-

pected, there were many people who were not blonde girls among the dead. 2. For a provocative analysis of the link between capitalism and the rise of mass

3. 4.

5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10.

killings in the United States, see Felipe, “Left’s Failure.” This Internet article is not the kind of media that appears on hotel bar televisions, but it does complicate the discussion. Julien and Mercer, “Introduction,” 7. At the recent Celebrity Studies Conference, Christine Holmlund used her analysis of Arnold Schwarzenegger in the context of Sweden to illustrate how crucial it is for media scholars to take seriously the specificity of different national and regional contexts. See Holmlund, “‘Brand Arnold’ in Transition, in Place.” Kearney, “Recycling Judy and Corliss,” 272. I make this claim based on figures provided by BoxOfficeMojo.com for the highest-grossing film franchises and highest-grossing film average within particular film franchises. As of December 2012, the Disney animated girl films are the fifthhighest total grossing film franchise, Twilight is the ninth-highest grossing film franchise, and The Hunger Games has the highest grossing film average (based on just one film) in a film franchise. See http://www.boxofficemojo.com/franchise s/?view=Franchise&sort=sumgross&order=DESC&p=.htm (accessed December 11, 2012). I should note that BoxOfficeMojo.com does not define the “Disney animated girl films” as a franchise; however, because I do, I used the gross income of each individual film to identify what would be the overall ranking of the franchise. For more on contemporary franchises, see Johnson, Media Franchising. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Disney_animated_films#Animated_films_ produced_by_Disney-owned_studios (accessed December 24, 2012). See http://divergent.wikia.com/wiki/Divergent_(film) (accessed May 23, 2013). McDonnell, “Just Like Us.” As I write this sentence while sitting in my local coffee chop, Selena Gomez and the Scene’s hit single “Love You Like a Love Song” (which was first released when Gomez was eighteen years old) plays in the background.

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index

Italicized page numbers refer to an illustration or caption on the page. abortion, 109–111, 121, 122, 244n135 Academy Awards: Foster, Jodie, 103; O’Neal, Tatum, 42, 45, 46, 52, 103; Paquin, Anna, 103; Sidibe, Gabourey, 102 Addie (Paper Moon character), 38, 40–42, 45, 48, 49 adolescence, 32, 69, 105 adoption, 110, 121–122 adoration and denigration of girls, 61–64; anxiety about, 20, 27; can-do girls, 128; gamma girls, 70, 218; girl films, 53, 97–98, 99–106, 125; girlhood, 10; Juno (film), 100; Little Miss Sunshine (film), 99–100; magazine cover girls, 61–64, 83, 113, 125; media culture, 15; moral panic, 224; Obama girls, 70; Page, Ellen, 100, 107; Precious (film), 100–102; racialized girls with agency, 93; Sidibe, Gabourey, 106; white girls, 59, 60; Williams, Venus, 141–143 Afghan girl (National Geographic cover), 235n31 African American feminists, 244n135 African American girls: at-risk girls, 7; everyday lived realities, 16; girlhood, 8, 9, 11, 19, 21, 36, 73, 84, 94, 99, 124, 126, 188, 219, 220, 233n65, 239n164; poverty, 154, 221; teen pregnancy, 7. See also Brown, Lucille; Gunn, Sakia; Imogene (Paper Moon character); Izquierdo, Elisa; Johnson, P. J.; Obama, Malia; Obama, Sasha; Precious (film); That’s So Raven (television series); Williams, Serena; Williams, Venus African Americans: anti-gay bias (ascribed), 171, 175–176; poverty, 82–83; tennis and, 82, 246n51, 247n63. See also Ashe, Arthur; Dandridge, Dorothy; Robinson, Bill “Bojangles”; Sidibe, Gabourey AGs (aggressive lesbians). See Gunn, Sakia Ahn, Philip, 53 Akeelah and the Bee (film), 97 Alba, Jessica, 237n104 Alex (Wizards of Waverly Place character), 72–73, 193, 208

alternative girls: ambiguous ethnicity, 219; book’s focus on, 9, 10, 17, 23, 219; Brooks, Tamara, 93; can-do girls, 21, 61; within the center, 11, 221, 223; Dubroff, Jessica, 93; feminist girls’ media studies, 221, 228n35; girl films, 96; girls of color, 92–93; Gomez, Selena, 93; Gunn, Sakia, 22; Hudgens, Vanessa, 93; magazine cover girls, 60, 61, 62, 64–65, 92, 93; Marris, Jacqueline, 93; media presence, 17, 94, 130; Obama, Sasha and Malia, 69–70; otherness, 219; queerness, 221; race, 219; as spectacular, 2, 219, 221; teen stars and celebrities, 94; Whip It (film), 217; Williams, Serena, 93; Williams, Venus, 93 Altman, Rick, 240n1 AMBER Alerts, 2, 58 ambiguous ethnicity: advertisements, 73; Alex (Wizards of Waverly Place character), 72–73; alternative girls, 219; entertainment industry, 102; Gomez, Selena, 7, 75, 77, 93, 206; Hudgens, Vanessa, 77, 93; Latinas, 63, 73; magazine cover girls, 237n104 ambiguous sexuality, 37 American Association of University Women, 14 Anderson, Mignon, 231n21 Andrews, David, 131 A.N.T. Farm (television series), 7, 12 Anthony, Caylee, 2, 85 antiracism on live television, 144–154 Arbuckle, Roscoe “Fatty,” 55 Ariès, Philippe, 18 As Told by Ginger (television series), 12 Ashe, Arthur, 141, 143, 147–148 Asian American girls, 36. See also Hikaru, Utada; Kwan, Michelle; Kwan, Nancy; Song, Brenda; Wong, Anna May; Yamaguchi, Kristi Asian American media studies, 10 at-risk girls: African American girls, 7; anxiety texts about, 14; daughters of political figures, 66; femininity, 60; girls of color, 69; Harris, Anita, 2, 60; Latinas, 7;

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“climb-down [narrative] resolutions,” 10 Clinton, Chelsea, 58–59, 66 Clueless (film), 99 CNN, 102–103, 120, 159 Cody, Diablo, 100 Cohen, Curly, 109 Coleman, Monique, 71, 72 Collins, Bud, 128–129, 142 Collins, Patricia Hill, 60 color-blindness, 140, 209. See also race-blindness Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen (film), 99 Connolly, Maureen, 128 Coraline (animated film), 97 Cosgrove, Miranda, 2, 71, 237n104 Cosmo Girl (magazine), 13 Couric, Katie, 107, 111 Cox, Courteney, 64 crash-and-burn girls, 4, 7, 104, 106, 125, 218 critical media literacy, 189–190 “criticality to girls, 184–185 cultural studies, 14, 182, 251n3 Cyrus, Miley, 2, 13, 58–59, 71–72 Damien (Mean Girls character), 114–116, 243n107 Dandridge, Dorothy, 37, 42–43 Daniels, Lee, 101, 108, 111, 123, 241n35 Danimals Yogurt Crush Cup advertisement, 200 Date with Judy (“meta-property”), 225 Davenport, Lindsay, 135–136, 138, 150, 152 Davies, Cristyn, 104, 119 Davis, Lorraine, 44–45, 52 Dawes, Dominique, 2 deCordova, Richard, 28–29, 55, 56, 231n21 Dee, Sandra, 70 Deford, Frank, 138, 142–143 delinquency films, 33–34 Dementieva, Elena, 245n17 Devers, Ellen, 87 Dietrich, Marlene, 10, 46 Diff’rent Strokes (television series), 70 disability studies, 244n135, 244n144 Disney: 3rd grade media analysts, 198–199, 210, 212–213, 215; animated girl films, 253n6; animated princess/girl films, 225; cable channel, 6, 12, 58; diversity, 207; Hudgens, Vanessa, 237n110; Princess Fairytale Hall, 225; shows about girls, 12; ubiquity, 213

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films, 33–34; everyday girlhoods, 98; feminism, 98; feminist film studies methodology, 98–99; film franchises, 225; genre-defying, 106; girl audiences for, 99; girls’ autoeroticism, 99; girls’ choice and agency, 99; heteronormativity, 98–99; media coverage, 112; media culture, 25–56; moral panic, 103; patriotism, 35, 36; pedagogical nature, 98, 107; poverty, 106, 122; protectionist discourse, 103; public discussion about, 95, 96–97, 113; queer girls, 220; queerness, 96; sexual tension, 33; smart, anti-beauty girls, 106; special girlhoods, 98; themes, 125; “tomboy films,” 34, 45; trouble with girl stars, 103–106 girl power: can-do girls, 2, 128–129, 190, 228n35; embracing of, 12; feminist girls’ media studies, 17; girl power figures, rise of, 14; neoliberalism, 5 Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (film), 20 Girlfight (film), 16 girlhood: adoration and denigration of girls, 10; African American girls, 8, 9, 11, 19, 21, 36, 73, 84, 94, 99, 124, 126, 188, 219, 220, 233n65, 239n164; celebrity culture, 6; everyday girlhoods, 98; feminist, 98; former teen celebrities, 225; girl films, 98; Gunn, Sakia, 179, 180; media, 220; neoliberalism, 224; publicness of contemporary, 7; sexualization of, 116; special girlhoods, 98; teen stars and celebrities, 225; Williams, Venus, 132 “girling” of grown women, 19 girls: African American (see African American girls); at-risk girls (see at-risk girls); autoeroticism, 21, 99, 119, 126; bobbysoxers, 11; boys watching shows about, 12; can-do girls (see can-do girls); celebrity culture, 224, 225–226; choice and agency, 99, 119–122, 123, 126; crash-and-burn girls, 4, 125, 218; criminalization and incarceration, 15; “criticality” to, 184–185; cultural obsession with, 12–13; decision making, 21; domesticity, 26; as fabulous, 5; femininity, 26; feminism, 9; gamma girls (see gamma girls); girl athletes, 62–63; “giving voice” to, 185; Haskell, Molly, 52; heterosexuality, 221; hypersexualized girls, 104–105, 182–183, 213–214; Latinas, 36, 84; “lost girls,” 8; on magazine covers (see magazine cover girls); mean girls, 2, 8, 15–16, 85, 114; media, relationship to, 186–191, 194, 197; media coverage, damage from, 22;

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Hunger Games (Collins), 2 Hunger Games (film), 71, 225, 253n6 hypersexualized girls, 104–105, 182–183, 213–214 iCarly (television series), 12, 71 “If You Let Me Play” girls (Nike ad), 2, 128 Imogene (Paper Moon character), 38, 40–42, 54 Independent Moving Pictures (IMP), 29 innocence, 103, 104, 166–169, 221 Irwin, Katherine, 15 Irwin, Lisa, 84 Issues with Jane Velez-Mitchell (television series), 103 Izquierdo, Elisa, 85, 86–88, 93 Jackson, Steven, 131 Jackson, True (True Jackson, VP character), 5 James, Sharpe, 171 Janis (Mean Girls character), 114–116, 243n107 Jarman, Michelle, 244n144 Jason (Friday the 13th character), 209 Jenny (Sabrina, the Teenage Witch character), 196 Jesse (television series), 12 Johnson, Lajoya, 170 Johnson, P. J., 38–43, 54, 232n63 Johnson, Patreese, 176 Jones, Adrianne, 85 Journal of Girlhood Studies, 14 Joyce, Andrea, 145, 150 Julien, Isaac, 219 Juno (film), 106–113, 119–123; abortion, 121, 122; acknowledgment of girls’ fantasies and pleasures, 107–108; adoption, 110, 121–122; adoration and denigration of girls, 100; Bleeker (character), 122; exceptionalism of, 107; feminism, 109–112; girls’ choice and agency, 119–122, 123, 126; girls’ decision making, 21; Hine, Gabrielle, 121; Juno (character), 100, 106, 108, 109, 120, 121–122, 123; Mark (character), 121–122; Page, Ellen, 9, 98, 106, 107; Precious (film), 122; public discussion about, 95, 97, 113; separation of motherhood from romance, 122; teen pregnancy, 110–111, 123; themes, 125; Vanessa (character), 121–122 Just for Kicks (television series), 12 Kai-Lan (Ni Hao, Kai-Lan character), 2 Kaplan, Elaine Bell, 15

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Janis (character), 114–116, 243n107; Kevin (character), 114–115; Lohan, Lindsay, 9, 98, 103, 104, 113–114, 242n71; loss of innocence for the child actor, 103; meanness, 114, 126; pedagogical nature, 107; protectionist discourse, 103; public discussion about, 95, 97, 113; queer girls, 114–116, 126, 243n108; racialized heterosexuality, 114–115; Regina (character), 114; response of girl audiences, 113; teen girl film genre, 99; themes, 125 meanness: heteronormativity, 114–115, 126, 243n107; Mean Girls (film), 126 media: alternative (See Gunn, Sakia); alternative girls’ presence in, 17, 94, 130; antiracism on live television, 144–154; “blonde world” presented by, 8; celebrity culture, 6–7, 20, 59; deregulation, 12, 18; dominant, 10, 17, 218, 220–221, 223; femininity, 59; girl films, 25–56; girlhood, diverse, 220; girls, damage to, 22; girls, representations of (1990–2012), 11–13, 26, 58, 222; girls’ capacity to carry media franchises, 225; girls’ relationship to, 186–191, 194, 197; live/near-live sports television, 132; local (see Gunn, Sakia); mainstream, 10, 15, 22, 37, 43, 57, 64, 110–111 (see also Gunn, Sakia); marketing, 4, 5, 6, 8, 13, 17, 18, 29, 30, 53, 73, 95, 186, 200, 202, 214, 223, 228n57; moral panic, 22; national, 62, 92, 224 (see also Gunn, Sakia); racism in, 202–203; scholarship, effect on, 188; sexualization of girls, 213–214; spectacularization of girls, 5–6, 6–7; television’s representation of girls, 203–204 media audiences research, 182, 187, 190–191 media culture: adoration and denigration of girls, 15; queer girls, 1, 99 media effects, 182, 188 media literacy, children’s, 189–190 media literacy scholarship, 215, 222 media production by girls, 15, 188–189, 223 Media Project, 191–193 media studies: Asian American media studies, 10; feminist girls’ media studies, 13–17, 221, 224, 226; resistant audiences, 182, 190; resistant readings, 10, 14, 21, 65, 132 Meet Corliss Archer (“meta-property”), 225 Mercer, Kobena, 219 methodology: alternative representations of girls, 21; Asian American media studies, 10; critical method, 158; empirical methods, 218; ethnography, 16; feminist film studies methodology, 98–99, 219, 221, 224;

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Parity of Five (television series), 71 pathos: girls of color, 239n169; Gunn, Sakia, 158, 166, 176; magazine cover girls, 87–88; white girls, 218 Patterson, Alexis, 239n164 Pelosso, Silvina, 84 People (magazine): cover story – Barbara and Jenna Bush, 66; cover story – Bristol Palin, 66; cover story – Capriati, Jennifer, 79; cover story – Caylee Anthony, 85; cover story – Chelsea Clinton, 66; cover story – Jacqueline Marris and Tamara Brooks, 88–90, 89; cover story – Jessica Dubroff, 8–9, 85, 90; cover story – Nancy Kwan, 79–80; cover story – Sasha and Malia Obama, 66, 67; covers (1990–2012), 57–58, 61, 63–64, 71–72, 78, 92; covers, girls on, 20; girls in peril, 83–85, 88–90; Juno (film), 109; kidnapped and survived girls of color, 84; racial difference, denial of, 77; racialized teen celebrities, 73; sports stars, 78, 79; teen celebrities, 70–71 Perry, Tyler, 108, 112 Peterson, Latoya, 112 PFLAG (Parents, Family and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), 155–156, 160, 168, 171, 173, 247n3 Phillips, Mackenzie, 70–71, 230n7 Pickford, Mary, 32–33, 37, 42–43, 55, 231n21 Pictures of Girlhood (Hentges), 240n1 Pipher, Mary, 4, 14, 182, 186 Plato, Dana, 70, 71, 72 Pocahontas (animated film), 190 Poitier, Sidney, 53 political economy research, 224 Pond, Ashley, 84 Possible, Kim (Kim Possible character), 2 postfeminism: can-do/at-risk dichotomy, 69; “choiceoisie,” 120–121; contemporary girls, 11–12; “girling” of grown women, 19; spectacularization of girls, 12 postracial affection for blackness, 140 postracial girls, magazine covers and, 69–70, 77, 131, 140, 144, 154, 209, 218 postracism, 69–70, 244n144 poverty: African American girls, 154, 221; African Americans, 82–83; girl films, 106, 122; Gunn, Sakia, 163, 221; Hoberman, J., 122; Izquierdo, Elisa, 86, 87; mainstream media, 156; Newark, New Jersey, 172; Precious (film), 112, 123; Precious (Precious character), 125; whites, 86; Williams, Richard, 150

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Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (Brashares), 2 Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (film), 95 16 and Pregnant (television series), 120 Sloop, John, 157 Smart, Elizabeth, 83–84, 85, 88, 93 social inequities, 69–70 social justice, 222 Solares Hill (newspaper), 110 Song, Brenda, 2, 10, 71, 72, 207, 228n48 Sonny with a Chance (television series), 12 Spears, Britney: 3rd grade media analysts, 190; at-risk status, 4; celebrity status, 2; defined as a girl, 20; girlhood clinging to, 225; magazine covers, 71, 72, 226; Newsweek magazine, 70 Spears, Jamie Lynn, 4, 120, 122 spectacularization of girls: colorblindness, 7–8; death-based, 179; girls as fabulous, 5; girls as visual objects on display, 5; girls famous for what happened to them (dead, kidnapped, etc.), 65; magazine cover girls, 58–59; media, 5–6, 6–7; postfeminism, 12; scandals, 5, 55–56 spectacularization of identity, 6 Spice Girls, 20, 129 Spiderwick Chronicles (media franchise), 202 Spirited Away (animated film), 95 Spîrlea, Irina, 144, 148–151 Splendor in the Grass (film), 33–34 Sports Illustrated (magazine), 127 sports stars: displacement of whiteness, 82; girl athletes, 62–63; magazine cover girls, 65, 78–83; nationalism, critique of, 65, 82 sports television, 132 Springer, Kimberly, 115 Sprouse, Dylan, 75 Square Pegs (television series), 71 star studies, 27, 28–35 star system. See film star system “star-as-celebrity,” 59 Star-Ledger (newspaper), 163 Stars (Fischer and Landy), 231n34 stars of color, 72–77 Staten Island Advance (newspaper), 174–175 Steinberg, Jessica, 85 Stern, Howard, 102–103 Stevenson, Alexandra, 1`30, 82 Stewart, Kristen, 71, 225 Stockton, Kathryn, 8 Stolle, Fred, 137 street harassment, 164–165, 177

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Welch, Raquel, 49–50, 53 Wendy Wu: Homecoming Warrior (made-forTV-movie), 228n48 Whale Rider (film), 2, 97 Whip It (film), 217 white girls: adoration and denigration of girls, 59, 60; ambiguous sexuality, 37; blondeness, 54, 60, 63, 64, 83, 84, 85–86, 87, 186, 200, 208, 217–218, 219–220, 225; can-do girls, 1, 7, 77, 92; can-do/at-risk dichotomy, 94; celebrity culture, 7–8; dead white girls, 85; gamma girls, 7; girls in peril, 85–86; innocence, 221; “lost girls,” 8; magazine cover girls, 61, 63, 64, 78, 92, 219–220; mean girls, 15–16; middle-class, 15, 17, 186, 218; pathos, 218; protectionist discourse, 60, 86, 187–188; sexuality, 37; as tragic victims, 92 whiteness: blondeness, 38, 63, 235n29; cando/at-risk dichotomy, 9; displacement of, 82, 93, 115, 158; Dyer, Richard, 8; girl celebrities, 73; girl film stars, 20, 35, 36–43, 53–54, 55, 59; heteronormativity, 218, 222–223, 224; heterosexuality, 115; Negra, Diane, 31; O’Neal, Tatum, 28, 35, 38–39, 40–41, 50; Paper Moon (film), 43; teen tennis players, 22, 132, 133, 135, 153, 154; Temple, Shirley, 37–38 whites, poverty and, 86 whites, tennis and, 82 Whitney, Alison, 34 Wie, Michelle, 2 Williams, Oracene, 140, 144–145, 150, 154 Williams, Richard, 129, 141, 144–145, 147, 150, 154 Williams, Serena: alternative girls, 93; beads, 151–152; can-do/at-risk dichotomy, 83; celebrity status, 21, 127; displacement of men in tennis, 82; junior competitions, 144, 146, 147; magazine covers, 78, 80–83; 1998, 129; 1998 Australian Open, 139; other players, relationship with, 142; racialization of, 82; stereotypical representations of African American girls, 134; Williams, Venus, 138 Williams, Venus, 127–154; adorable, 141–143; alternative girls, 93; Ashe, Arthur, 141, 143, 147; assimilation for other African Americans, 140–141; Austin, Tracy, 134, 136–137, 138, 142, 145; beads, 141–143; blackness, 139–143; “boot-strapping” narrative, 137, 221;

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